CIHM 
Microfiche 
Series 
(Monographs) 


ICIVIH 

Collection  de 
microfiches 
(monographies) 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 


I    ^^f 


jes 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes  /  Notes  techniques  et  bibliographiques 


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the  images  in  the  reproduction,  or  which  may 
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D 


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Couverture  de  couleur 


I      I    Covers  damaged  / 


Couverture  endommagee 


□    Covers  restored  and/or  laminated  / 
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I         Cover  title  missing  /  Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 

I I    Coloured  maps  /  Cartes  geographiques  en  couleur 

□    Coloured  ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)  / 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 

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D 
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Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleur 

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I'ombre  ou  de  la  distorsion  le  long  de  la  marge 
int6rieure. 


D 


D 


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de  normale  de  filmage  sont  indiqu6s  ci-dessous. 

I      I  Coloured  pages  /  Pages  de  couleur 

j I   Pages  damaged  /  Pages  endommag^ 


es 


n 


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n 


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Quality  in^gale  de  I'impression 

Includes  supplementary  material  / 
Comprend  du  materiel  suppl^mentaire 

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possible. 


P 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below  / 

Ce  document  est  filme  au  taux  de  reduction  indiqu^  ci-dessous. 


;       lOx 

14x 

18x 

22x 

26x 

30x 

J 

12x 

16x 

20x 

24x 

28x 

32x 

The  copy  filmtd  hare  has  b««n  raproducad  thanka 
to  tha  ganarotity  of: 

National  Library  of  Canada 


L'exempiaira  U\mi  fut  raproduit  grace  i  la 
gAn6rosit6  de: 

Bibliotheque  nationale  du  Canada 


The  images  appearing  hare  are  the  best  quality 
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filming  contract  apecifications. 


Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  filmed 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
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sion.  or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  tha 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illuatratad  impression. 


The  laat  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  — ^  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  the  symbol  V  (meaning  "ENO"). 
whichever  applies. 

Mapa,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
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method: 


Les  images  suivantes  ont  ith  reproduites  avec  le 
plus  grand  soin,  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  et 
de  la  nettetA  de  l'exempiaira  filmA,  et  en 
conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmaga. 

Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
pepier  est  imprimis  sont  fitmis  en  commencant 
par  le  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  aoit  par  la 
darniire  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration,  soit  par  le  second 
plet,  selon  le  cas.  Tous  les  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  fiimis  en  commanpant  par  la 
premidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 

Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaitra  sur  la 
derniire  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbole  -^  signifie  "A  SUIVRE ',  le 
symbols  V  signifie  "FIN". 

Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  dtre 
filmis  d  des  taux  de  reduction  diffdrents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  etre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  cliche,  fl  est  film*  d  partir 
de  Tangle  sup^rieur  gauche,  de  gauche  ^  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'imeges  nicessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  m^thoda. 


1 


4 


MICROCOPY    RESOLUTION    TEST   CHART 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  2) 


1.0 


1.25 


I  50 
1^ 


12.8 
12 

I  4,0 


1.4 


II  2.5 
2.2 

2.0 
1.8 


^      APPLIED  IIVHGE 


1553  East   Main   Street 

Rochester.   New   York         14609       li^A 

(716)   482  -  0300  -  Phorie 

(716)   288-  5989  -Fax 


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My   Friend   Bill 


!« 


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my  Stories  Told  in  the  Telling  of  One 


,'# 


*? 


BY 


Anson  A.  Gard 


Published   by 

The  Emerson  Press 

149  Broadway 
New    York    City 


,1 


C.2. 


Copyright,  iQoo, 

nv 

ANSON   A.   GARD. 


W//  rights  reserved. 


i»941,<42a 


ROBERT  DRUMMOND,  I'RINTRR,  NRW  YORK. 


INTRODUCTION. 


The   writer    of   -My    Friend    Hill"   has   made   no 
attempt  at  a  literary  production,   and   he  trusts  that 
his  readers  will  not  view  his  first  effort  from  any  such 
standpoint.      He  believes  that  a  story   may   contain 
mterest  even  though  the  strict  rules  of  literature  are 
not  followed.      To  write  by  rule  is  to  lay  down  a  plan 
and  make  everything  fit  to  that  plan.      "  My  l-riend 
Bill"  is  a  life-story,  and  no  rule  can   be  laid  down  to 
fit  a  hfe.      Each  day  brings  forth  a  change,  and  the 
rules  of  yesterday  may  be  broken  by  the  happenings 
o    to-day.      .'  My  Friend  Bill  "  is  a  human  story,  in 
which   the  heart  rather  than  the  intellect  guided  the 
pen.     That   which  pleases  the  intellect    is    a  passing 
pleasure-that  which   touch    .  the  heart   is  a  lasting 
impression. 

The  author  has  a  kindly  feeling  for  all  those  who 
see  only  the  seamy  side  of  life,  and  no  patience  with 
those  whose  selfishness  would  crush  the  hopes  and 
ambitions  of  the  "  under  man." 

In  the  asides  of  his  story,  he  has  tried  to  show  up 
the  shams  and  fallacies  of  the  day  in   their  true  li^ht 
ana  Has  aimed  to  prove  that  true  happiness  is  only 
found  in  doing  justice  to  our  fellows.     The  piling  up 

•iii 


IV 


INTUOnUCJION. 


of  riches  for  the  sake  of  riches,  and  the'  gainin^r  of 
lienors  that  vanity  may  be  appeased,  never  brinj,^  hap. 
piness,  while  jrcnerous  treatment  is  ever  followed  by 
contentment. 

His  casual  characters  are  known  only  by  their  call- 
in^r  or  occiij)ation — a  name  means  nothin*;.  and  is  un- 
necessary. The  reader  of  a  story  is  like  one  in  a  pro- 
miscuous comi)any— he  cares  not  to  have  each  indi- 
vidual introduced  to  liim. 

While  many  an  author,  who  aims  to  follow  literary 
rules  to  the  letter,  will  devote  pages  to  dry  argument 
that  nobody  cares  to  read,  the  author  of  this  volume 
has  aimed  to  jrive,  instead,  some  character-sketch  or 
incident  of  human  interest.  In  this  he  may,  at  times, 
have  failed,  or  may  even  have  failed  in  his  main  story, 
but  he  trusts  that  when  you  have  reached  the  end, 
you  will  lay  aside  the  book  with  a  pleasant : 

"HE   IS   MY  FRIEND,   TO(J!" 


i   iil 


n 


CONTENTS. 


Chapter  I.— Bill  SturtK  for  New  York  City— Sam  WiKglnr," 

City  Wife 1 

Chapter     II.— The     Leightons     Leave     J  lighmont— Charles 

I.eighton's    History y 

Chapter  III.— lluben  Goes  to  the  City  to  Visit  His  Friend 

liill    11 

Chapter  IV.— Ruben  in  New  York  Without  Rill's  addre.ss— 
He  Is  Driven  in  a  Cab  the  Full  Length  of  Fifth  Ave- 
nue Hunting  for  Fifth  Avenue — He  Meets  Many 
Sociable  People,  Among  the  Numl)er  a  Great  After 
Dinner  Speaker,  to  Whom  He  Tells  Country  Stories 
—The  Hunter— He  Advertises  for  "A  Quiet  Boarding 
Place" iG 

Chapter  V.— "Ruben  Starts  an  Endless  Chain"— He  Finds 
a  Typical  New  York  Boarding  House,  at  Which  He 
Meets  the  Statesman,  .he  Heathen,  the  Actor  and  the 
Man  with  the  Red  Whiskers— All  Attempts  at  "Guy- 
ing" Ruben  Fail 25 

Chaper  VI.— Ruben  Tells  the  Story  of  His  First  Turkey 
Shooting  Match— The  Boarders  Try  to  Make  Rube  an 
After  Dinner  Speaker — The  Country  Boy  and  the 
City  Boy  Compared— The  Country  Preacher — The 
Country  Teacher— The  "Hired  Hand"— Dennis  and 
His  S^•'•y  of  the  "Cat  Burd"— Old  Mike  and  the  Giant 
"Brai  dy"— Jake  from  Holland.  Story— The  "Hired 
Girl"  and  Her  Witch  Stories 29 

Chapter  VII.— The  Biographer  Tells  of  the  Boys  from  the 
Valley  of  Virginia— The  "Merchant  Prince"— The 
Smart  Young  Doctor 37 

Chapter  VIII.— Ruben  on  the  Bowery— He  Visits  the  Mu- 
seums, Where  He  Wrestles  with  Prof.  Throwem- 
Ruben  Helps  the  Poor  Young  Man— The  Medal  Man..   40 

Chapter  IX.— The  Bald  Headed  Broker  Gives  Ruben  Much 
Good  Advice  and  Tells  Him  Many  Stories  of  His  Ov/n 

V 


I  ; 


*  I  • 


U  1 


vi 


C-OXTKXTS. 


II 


^,         ■•tol.lulns-  i„„  p,    "'"'»   "'""'"    to   the   TI,„a.o   u„,l 

cimpior  x,.-M,..  k„i,.,,.h;;-,;;/;;,;\:,;,;;;---; 02 

^«y"-Th„  M,„  ,,,,„  ,.„„„:,.„/"   -""^"y   or   To. 
'•"'islon  Htory  "'"   «"''"rb8~TI„.    !,m1I,i„; 

r ''^-!^^;o::^c;;;:ii^;;'-«fw,,o^ 

Chapter  Xni.~iu„„„  T,    ns  1 '  „  "r"""-'''""  '^"'"or. . . . 
f^linpipr  XIV.— Hi.J»„  vi  f.  ""  ""'">' ci 

,„  ■■*^e.  yo";;;i!",r::'"' '""  '-•"■^  "■-'  ■•'"-»■•  w,uv;h; "' 

eaapt.  X  VH  J^Lr ;:  ,t^';:,;«;»  views. . .  .■.•.•.•.•.•;.•;  II 

of  Uttle  Ed/ll,              '"""'«"•  Story  of  the  Death 
Chapter  XVIiI.-K„„,„  '  s.n,';,,^  'at  'm;  ' '  w '' 

Chapter  Xf'x'  ?;,  ''!'"'"  °"'  '"  '^^  ^''^     •  •  ""  '"''  «, 

r"«-e;r^.:SrSi;:- «----he  ^« 

Se.,t  to  the  Hospital,  Where  He  ,    v^'"'""""  '"'"  '^ 

^^        Hi,„  :!th  Her "c  'nTra'lr'"^  '"  """^  -'  ''^i--  "' 

Chapter  XXH,.-R„be„   Hear     f^m  "» ""^ 

■'■ho.«ht  He  Ha„  Bee'Lo  t-TheT''   T""'  ''"""^ 
•tnii  the  "Lone  Widows"     H„,  Country  Maidens 

Chapter   XXIV.-Edwar    7e,l,~R   ,:  "","  °'-  ^^hipple. . .  106 
Eg.vpt.  Where  He  Had  L^  "'  "''  ''''^""^  i° 

Tomb,  a  Beantifu,  f  ady  mnl"  S  '"'""'^  °'^™™^'"J 
Before  Him  ^'  "  """^  ■'''™  Has  Ever  Been 

7"^J:n^^S;^:----;nd-„e^-„--       ■ 
Ch.pterXXn.-H„henTe„sE;:;.a;d-oV„.-.V-,--' 


47 

Quaint 
'c  and 

52 

of  'J'o- 
'HHions 
iKllan; 

55 

Jf  the 

>r 

'e  the 

64 

h  tho 

i>7 

71 

75 

>eath 

78 

Jiis- 
•  •  •  •   83 
[)un- 

. ..   86 
The 
has  93 
the 

Is 
aid 

...98 
ms 
..103 
ey 
ns 

..106 
in 
id 
m 

.109 
s 

.118 
e 


4 


CnMKXis. 


VII 


Affair    I'uKt 


CliapftT  XXVII.-   KMwanl.   M 


Chapt 


•'iifral   I'aik, 


UuIhmi  ThrunKh  ( 
«'!•   XXVlII.-."To.i.sin    Walli 
aim  CJuIIh  on  RiiIk! 


«'afilc..  nuii   II,. It.,,    I),. 


11'; 


iv"  with 


and 


fl»>l 


••n     Siiani,',.    |), 


ILMJ 


"   'It   "".    Hospital,    will,    I 


::t^rss  "='--:::;:; 


Chapter  XXfX.-Jlul 


H'U 


Its  1 


•'opIo-John   Wood 


»i"<l  Hill  Talk  or  t|„.  oi.i 


tJiit  of  the  "Old    U 
Chapter    XXX.-  Hill    Tell 


Hiun 


lion 


le  and 


anen   l-'arnj' 


Aunt  liaehar*  and  II 


vv 


HeitlxMn 

to  Kduealo  linlH 

Charities    (?) 


«    of    His    Meuli 


.•{7 


•s  -City  n(,y.s  in  ti,,.  ( 


"K    With    III,.    I), 


"'"ifry     Kdward  Offr 


"  lu  the  Law     Unhen  K^.f 


r.s 


uses—City 


Chapter  XXXI.- The  F 


IX'HertI 


Chapter  XXXII.  -R,,! 


)ern  and  the  Trust. 


i""  Keacliini,.  |,:ir,,,.(  or 


no 


a  Story  -  Mr, 


one  ho  had  met  on  Firth  A 


M    m    Invited    |,y    (j,(^   ( 


Ji'cat  Man    (th< 


l>y  the  Hilarions  S 
Mak 


v«'ime)   to  a  Dii 


oti 


Pl. 


f'H    His    Fir.st    Arter    I 


^  or  Katnskatka-He  ( 


'tier  (iiv( 


toe 


n 


and 


Yor|. 


UKso—Helen    Pleads   W 


"""*'■•    «IH'oeh.    Amid    Ai 


<  and   Ho  a  Lawyer 


ith    Uuhon   t 


o  Stay   in    n 


ew 


Chapter  XXXIII.— ^d 


ward  If  ears  I' 


Milan.  Italy— Kdward   Sai 


ro 


m  Hroressor  ]{Iak 


153 


Chapter    XXXIV 


I^nhen  Money  to  Ed 


Mr.     Dellertl 


I«  for  Milan, 


e  in 


'rn    Insists 


'•ate  Himself  in  the  I 


on     Loaning 


Reruses  "-"  '"  '"^  '-iw-  Rnho 


Chapter  XXXV.— Tl 


News    from    Home— 


10  Shylofk— Ilnben  Re( 


iGfJ 


Hachael's   Bj 


ome— Oil    Ha.s    H 


eivea  Wonderful 


er 


Chapter   XXXVI.— R„i 
Sues  His   Fathe 


irren   Old    Far 


m 


"    I'^onnd    on    Aunt 


>fn    Returns    to    HiKhmont- 


17;: 


^Vhieh   Ruben   Mai 
Suit— The  F 
Herthern  Hi 


••   for   Money   Loaned— The 


\es 


a  Great  Speech  and   Wi 
and  Hoi   Lost  M; 


Shyloek 
Trial 


Rich   Young  Man,   Ret 


oor  Widow 

ys  the  Harron  Old  Farm- 


in 


ns  the 


Law 


ui 


i«:ffie — Mr.  Do 
Ruben,  Now  a 


Ch 


ns   to   New    York   to  Study 


apter  XXX VII.— 


Drasco    Prepares    to 


Edward  Reaches  Mil 


ISO 


an  and  with  Count 


go   as    Minstrels    to    Res 


ftue   a 


■W 


VllI 


COxVTENTS. 


Maiden,  Held  for  a  Ransom  by  Bandit'.  ^^^^^ 

Capte,-  XI,.-F,„,.o  and  ul,  »      Z'     "'""  '""  ""■■"-"' 

MlnHtrelx,  Who  are  Tho  gh     «  Be^„,            "  ""•'  ■''^'' 
Chapter  X,.,.-Tho  Minstrelfa  e  TaLn  rui,  p :  ' '  ■''' 

Chapter  XLII.-Ed    ar<     „  n,"       '  "''''""" 22t 

Escape  . .  '"'l'™v,ses  an.l  Sing»  the  Plan  of 

Chapter    XLIir  — THa    t^J    ' 228 

I-adersSla/n     .        ""    """    *'™"'    ""^'-Bandit 

Chapter  XLIV  — Tho  Tw«  n^       " ",," 232 

Chapter   XLV.-t':    D?rl<P,>,        ''/'""  '"  ^''^  """-'"■^^S 
B.OWS   from   He":;  S    fk  '■"...'"'r^r  ''""'""   "'"> 
leyn.  Returned     o  He     P^Tnts'      """■   ^""'^  ^'- 

^^f^^^r^----'-"""^  Another;  oanger^^^^ 

"■"tr;ri-'',-^'"'---'--ed-.^ 

i^nap  er  L.-I  ne  Dance  in  the  Barn "  „ 

"  Wr^g-^Xte"""  r"''-'''-'   "^   «-"'  to 'saV 'on-'" 

NeS  ct  r:^r:rr  thfr'-r"  *"-^ 

nniri   'p       u  ^    '•"^  Cause  of  the  Under- 

paid   Teachers— He  Snegests  n  Proof   t       ,       ^"^161- 

Chapter  LIII.-Maggie's  Story.' ^^^ 

Chapter  UV.-Rnben  and  the  "Hnn'ter": .' .'  i !°' 

Chapter  I,V.-The  Celebration  Man ...         f' 

Chapter  LVI.-R„be„  Goe.  to  the  Assembly.' Whe^e^His' Ad      " 

ChapteT  vu"  '"V™"'^*  ««™™»«  Nil....    .     "^"3,, 
Chapter  LVir.-Helen  the  Orown  Lady.  1!" 

Chapter  LVIII.-"Mlster  Ruben"  Again. f 

U<>1 


Page. 

192 

fiaiKlits— 
'■  Cellar  at 

lliJj 

near  Ban- 
the  Giant 
the  Sh(.'(1.210 
'  tlie  'i'wo 

217 

nip  of  the 

221. 

e  Plan  of 

.228 

1— Bandit 

232 

Ransom. 239 
^em   with 
^nita   Al- 

247 

t>anger- 

254 

hton   Al- 

2G5 

Strange 

2{i0 

1 276 

280 

Say   on 

3    Many 

l^ntler- 

■ 288 

ur  Ciis- 

299 

304 

309 

315 

iis  Ad- 

319 

325 

331 


MY  FRIEND  BILL. 


CHAPTER    I. 

n'c  felt  that  the  turn  in  the  road  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill 
had  shut  out  lorever  the  Bill  zee  had  knozmi  from 
chudhood! 

AIway^  hen  Bill  canic  home  on  his  suninicr  vacations 
he  seemed  so  cHffcrent  from  the  ^reen  country  hoy  who 
had  left  Ilighmont  for  the  great  citv  of  New  York. 

He  was  changed  in  so  many  ways' that  I  cannot  descrihe 
them.     He  did  not  exactly  put  on  "airs,"  but  the  "airs" 
were  on  him  just  the  same.     He  did,  however,  emphasize 
the  fact  that  he  lived  on  Fifth  avenue.     Now,  to  us  hoys 
who  had  never  seen  New  York,  and,  for  that  matter,  anv 
other  place  than  our  own  little  village  of  two  hundred 
people,  situated  far  back  in  the  mountains  of  Pennsyl- 
vania, Fifth  aventic  was  a  greater  place  than  a  city  if^elf 
where  only  the  millionaires  had  their  palaces.     He  did  not 
just  say  that  he  was  better  than  we  ho,iie  bovs.  but  von 
could  tell  by  his  every  movement  that  he  thought  so-  and 
somehow  his  living  on  Fifth  avenue,  or,  as  Bill  called  it 
The  Ahvnu,"  we  accorded  him  a   position   on  a  little 
hiRlier  plane,  and  he  saw  it  and  used  it  against  us 

Them  hi.  dress  was  different.     His  neckties  were  nat- 
tier.    His  hat  had  a  narrow  brim,  with  a  colored  band  • 


i^^ 


2  MY   FRIEND   BILL. 

liis  shoes  were  poiiital,  and  on  occasion  he  wore  L-loves 
and  earned  a  cane.  Althougli  lie  had  always  prided  liim- 
^eU  on  his  good  eyesight,  his  later  homecomings  were 
•narked  with  gold  spectacles  held  on  with  a  chain  In 
short,  Hs  whole  make-up  was  the  opposite  ef  the  roughly 
dressed  Bill  who  had  started  away  to  seek  his  fortune  in 
the  far-off  city. 

1  shall  never  forget  the  morning  Bill  left  Tiighmont 
It  was  an  event  we  had  talked  of  and  looked  f(.rward  to 
for  months.     We  thought  of  his  departure  as  though  he 
were  going  out  into  an  entirely  new  world.     We  knew  of 
^cw   ^ork  only  as   we  had  read   of  it.     We  could   not 
compare  it,  as  we  had  never  seen  anvthing  with  which  to 
com,)are  it.     Somebody  had  told  us  that  it  was  a  great 
scope  of  Hat  country   with    houses  huilt  all   over  it  and 
rivers   all   around   it.     This   conveyed   no   notion   to  our 
mmds,  for  we  had  never  even  seen  a  flat  countrv  or  a 
stream  larger  than  the  "crick"  that  ran  at  the  edge'of  the 
ydlage.  witlj  here  and  there  a  place  deep  enough  for  a 
swimming  hole."     Our  impressions  of  the  outside  world 
cannot  be  conveyed  by  tongue  or  pen  to  anv  one  save  to 
Inm   who  has   seen   only   one   place,   and   tJiat   a   rou-h 
mountainous  country,  shut  away  from  the  world  as  by  a 
great  wall.  ^ 

Bill  had  c,fle„  sai.l  ho  knew  l,c  «o.,l,l  n,i,ss  o„r  "sinijhitr 
chool,  •  "spelhns  , Hatches."  "corn  h.skinos"  and  Idndrcd 
plhcnnKs  f,,,-  the  ynnn?  people  fn.n  far  an.l  near      We 
knevv.  hmvever,  «l,at  Ik-  «„„I,I  n.iss  more  tl,an  all  the.e- 
h.s  Stntday  n.Kht.s  witl,  Anita.     ^,11  never  mis,.ed  church 
Stinday  nislu.     He  was  o„e  of  the  few  hovs  at  II,>h,nont 
who  was  hrave  enough  to  start  at  the  church  door  with 
Ins  pri  and  nu,  the  .gauntlet,  which  gauntlet  always  had 
nntch  to  sav  to  the  hoy  who  pas.sed  down  hetween 
But  r  s.,,rfed  to  tel!  of  the  morniny  Bill  left  Highmont. 


wore  gloves 
prided  hini- 
minj4s  were 
cliain.  In 
the  nniglily 
>  fortune  in 

Higlimont. 
forward  to 

thou^di  he 
/e  knew  of 

could   not 
h  which  to 
as  a  great 
vvr  it  and 
^11  to  our 
intry  or  a 
:lgc  of  the 
igh   for  a 
ide  world 
le  save  to 
a   rough, 
1  as  by  a 

"singing 
I  kindred 
■ar.     We 
1  these — 
I  church 
ighmont 
)or  with 
ays  had 
1. 

rhmont. 


:F 


MY   FRIEND   BILL.  3 

We  had  all  gathered  down  at  Uncle  Dave  Carter's  tavern, 
where  the  stage  cuach  stoi)pe(l,  to  see  him  off.     He  was 
so  late  we  were  sure  he  would  be  left  behind,  but  bye-and- 
bye  we  saw  him  and  Anita  coming  (k)wn  the  one  street  of 
the    village    holding    hands.     They    walked    slowly,    as 
though  loath  to  i)art.     Anita  seemed  to  have  a  premoni- 
tion that  it   was   the  last   time  she   would  ever  sei^  him 
as  her  lover.     W'e  watched  the  stage  coach  as  far  as  we 
could  see  it,  and  when  it  reached  the  turn,  awav  at  the 
bottom  of  the  hill,  at  the  bridge,  we  all  went  our  several 
ways.     i\o  one  spoke  a  word.     \\\>  fdt  that  the  turn  in 
the  road  had  shut  out  forever  the  Bill  we  had  kntnvn  from 
childhood.    And  we  were  right.    We  never  again  saw  him 
as  we  had   known  him.     He  may  have  l>een   improved 
but    the    chddhood    affection    never     returned.      Anita's 
premonition  Ix^came  a  reality,  as.  when  he  came  home  on 
his  first  vacation,  he  treated  her  with  scant  courtesy  in 
return  for  her  year's  faithfulness  to  his  memory      [le'told 
Ins  mother  that  Anita  was  too  c|uiet.  or,  as  he 'said,  to  the 
complete  shocking  of  the  dear  ladv:    "She's  Um,  denied 
bashful  for  me,  see?"     Mis  mother's  evesight  being  most 
excellent  for  one  of  her  age.  she  said  she  saw.  but  was 
pained  to  hear  him  swear  so  violently  about  it.     "Resides, 
my  dear  son.  why  should  vou  so  soon  forget  Anifi?     She 
is  sweet  and  modest,  and  of  the  best  familv  in  the'  village 
I   h.yl   looked    forward  to  your  home-coming  almost   as 
much  for  her  sake  as  for  my  own.     Often  in' the  twilight 
she  and  T  have  sat  and  talked  of  vou  anri  wondered  if  vou 
would  be  nmch  changed.     Little  she  thought   to  find   in 
you  coldness  where  she  expected  love-the  same  love  you 
had  promised  when  you  sairl  good-bv  a  year  ago      My 
son.  you  will  some  time  regret  this  step!"' 

"Now.   wnfhor  "    coiVI    "n.'U 4I '^   •-    .     1  , 

,     ;, , ■   "■•"■•  '■*''"'■'   irritated  at  her  long 

speech,     you  know  T  expect  to  make  my  home  in  New 


fm 


4  WY  I'RJiiND  BILL. 

Vork.  Anita  may  l,c  jjocxl  enough  for  llijjliniont,  but  I 
want  a  wife  that  1  will  be  prot.d  of.  How  do  yon  think 
1  should  feel  to  have  her  come  down  to  the  otKce?  The 
boy.,  would  never  end  with  their  guying  „,e  and  my 
moujitain  lassie.' "  °  / 

"1  do  not  know  what  you  mean  by  'gnying.'  |„,t  I  do 
know  tliat  the  n.an  who  is  fortunate  enough  to  take  Anita 

fricndr''     *'"  ""'"'  '"'  ■'"'''''"'"'  '"  '"■'''*"'  '"•''■  ^"^  '"' 
"Mother,  yo.i  are  prejit,lice<l.      You  have  never  seen 
a  real  eity  la.ly,  and  think  that  because  you  love  Anita 
a.id  because  she  is  the  best  in  this  little  .nountain  village' 
that  she  would  be  a  lady  in  the  city."     Bill  was  almost 
rude  m  Ins  manner  toward  his  dear  mother,  but  she   in 
her  gentle  way,  softly  replied:     "I  may  not  have  seen 
what  ym.  call  a  'city  lady,'  but  I  do  know  that  a  true  and 
lovn,g  heart  is  to  be  preferred  in  a  wife  rather  than  the 
|x.lishcd    manners    which    so   often    clothe   a    heartless 
woman.     You  shotdd  tuarry  a  wife  for  the  hon,e  rather 
ban  for  he  draw„,g-room.     A  won,an  may  easily  change 
her  hab,    of  dress,   ,nay  ao,|uire  fine  manners,  but  the 
heart  wdlsel.lont  change.     Choose  first  a  gentle  nat, 
wh,ch   nuhcates  a   kind   heart:   then   con,.ider  the     ace' 
An.ta  has  both  the  heart  and  attractive  face.    Chan-^et 
her  manner  of  dress  will  easily  f„,l„w,  f„r  the  w^man 
has  nev^r  yet  l>een  fo.md  who  will  refuse  pretty  things  '" 
h^cxlmsband's  n.ean.s  adnn't  of  them  and  his'wishes  TaH  fo; 

"Mother,"  conclnd«l  Rill,  "you  cannot  appreciate  mv 
f-hngs  on  this  subject.  T  do  not  wish  to  go  c»  1  to 
wha  you  would  have  me  Ho,  but  I  cannot  sef  in  AniTaTh  t 
which  I  would  choose  in  a  wife." 

As  Bill  talked  a1«ut  the  citv  ladies  and  t1,<.,V  'SHi-b.H 
manners"  I '•""I'f"'*  i..i_  .._:■, .         - -"     '-■'     P'^"-'ned 


ildn't  help  thinking  of  Sam  Wiggin's''fin, 


iiont,  but  1 
•  you  tliink 
Hce?  The 
le  and  my 

'  but  I  do 
take  Anita 
licr  to  his 

lever  seen 

)ve  Anita, 

in  village, 

as  ahnost 

ut  slic,  in 

lavc  seen 

true  and 

than  the 

heartless 

ne  rather 

y  chan^^l-e 

but  the 

e  nature, 

:he   face. 

hanq-e  in 

'  woman 
hinq-s^  if 

5  call  for 


MY   FRIEND   BILL.  5 

city  wife.  Sam  had  been  a  great  beau  among  all  the  girls 
over  the  country.  lie  knew  them  for  miles  in  all  direc- 
tions around  Highmont.  They  called  him  "Sweet  Sam," 
as  he  always  brought  them  candy.  He  went  to  the  city 
and  brought  home  with  him  a  very  elegant-lcK)king  vife. 
We  always  wondered  how  Sam  won  her.  This  fine  latly, 
however,  had  her  "tem[>er,"  and  would  say  things  right 
out  in  company.  Once  during  a  visit  to  Highmont  Sam 
wanted  his  wife  to  go  with  him  to  see  some  of  his  old 
girls.  "What  do  I  want  to  see  them  for?"  she  asked,  in 
a  key  that  would  have  opened  all  the  upstairs  rooms. 
"Why,"  said  Sam,  meeklike.  "to  'crow'  over  them !" 
"You  flatter  yourself,  Mr.  Wiggins.  What  have  I  to 
crow  over?"     Then  everybody  laughed  but  Sam. 

With  all  of  Bill's  indifference  he  would  often  think  of 
the  two  years  he  and  Anita  had  spent  so  happily  together, 
for  he  loved  her  then,  before  he  had  gotten  all  those 
Fifth  avenue  notions  in  his  head. 


-iate  my 
trary  to 
lita  that 


polished 
ins'  fine 


CHAPTER  II. 

-^mla     He  told  lus  mother  <«  much.     He  ,aid  he 
had  found  the  city  ladies  ,nore  shor.  than  real 

The  Lefg^htons  had  never  seemerl  hho  ^,  i      ^ 

was  that  about  thctn  ^.l.  T      r  "'  P^^^^^^''  ^^^^^^ 

culture.    irT     ^l^^^'^^^'^^'^''^^^^^'  ^^  "^^^^-ed  decree  of 
^-     i\ir.  Uighton  had  been  an  officer  m  fT.^  p  •*•  u 

America  and  settle  in  TV  ■      '°"'''  ^^  ™me  to 

-roe  two  hi  :opi":r:r,"°""*^''"  ^"'^^^ 

every  way  from  wI>atT,o   ,.' ,  '  '"  ^''^'^■■'="'  '" 

he  want  to  l,i<le  a    aV      T  e  f^Vr"''^"^'  '''    ""'" 

^  iiese  and  many  more  questions 


MV    KUil'.X'l)    lilLL. 


he  missed 
'e  said  he 
eal. 

I's    father 
liad  come 
a  wee  bit 
no  other 
ts  people, 
lever  find 
e  always 
ce.     The 
vhile  the 
Ti  people 
3t,  dusty 

'.  There 
^gree  of 
British 
Hng-Hsh 
he  sub- 
at  there 
'ome  io 
lage  of 
rent  in 
?    Did 

pstions 
6 


we  asked  eacli  otlicr.  If  to  hide  from  the  world,  he  had 
indeed  come  to  the  right  place,  as  the  only  communication 
we  had  with  the  outside  world  was  the  tri-weekly  stage 
coach,  which  few  ever  used  aside  from  the  "drummers." 

With  all  our  wondering,  however,  he  came  and  went, 
taking  with  him  the  mystery,  and  not  until  years  after  did 
we  learn  that  his  real  name  was  Charles  Leighton  Allyn, 
son  of  Lord  Leighton  Allyii.  of  Westmoreland,  in  the 
North  of  England. 

When  Chark-s  was  hut  eighteen  years  old  he  entered  tlie 
army  and  passed  a  number  of  years  in  India.  For  his 
devotion  to  duty  and  his  many  deeds  of  valor  he  was  from 
time  to  time  promoted,  until  he  had  reached  the  rank  of 
captain.  Once  during  the  Sepoy  mutiny  of  1857  the  de- 
tachment to  which  he  belonged  was  hennned  in  by  several 
thousand  of  those  fanatical  Indian  soldiers.  The  English 
were  so  securely  entrenched  in  the  mor.ntains  that  for 
days  they  kept  back  the  hordes  of  vSepoys,  but  on  the 
evening  of  the  sixth  day  their  anmumition  began  to  run 
low.  The  commanding  general  called  a  council  of  his 
officers  and  told  them  that  unless  help  came  soon  they 
would  be  unable  to  withstand  the  rttacks.  All  knew  that 
this  meant  that  there  would  be  no  one  left  to  tell  the  story 
of  the  battle. 

"Surrounded  as  we  are  on  all  sides."  said  the  general, 
"it  will  Ik?  almost  impossible  for  us  to  get  a  messenger 
through  their  lines,  and  yet  it  is  our  only  hope.  Rut  who 
will  go?  There  is  one  chance  in  a  hundred  that  their 
lines  can  be  penetrated  and  passed  by  a  man  who  does  not 
fear  death." 

"General."  spoke  up  Colonel  Ross.  "T  have  in  my  regi- 
ment a  young  lieutenant  from  Westmoreland  who  is  not 
only  fearless,  but  he  is  one  of  the  most  tactful  (  iTicers  in 
our  armv.     Tf  there  is  the  one  chance,  he  will  take  it." 


€1 


8 


MY   FRIEND   UlLL 


"Call  him  at  once  "  ca,M  *\ 

rhari      r       .         '         *'  "^^^  general. 

am  at  your  service  "    ThV„         ?  "■^-     '^™'^''  ' 

'he    hour,  an<l    sfTorV,  "«  was  ready  within 

precious.  "'    °"'<^'  ""^  ^^•^'"y  ^onient  was 

^mlXZZlftJ:  t'f'  "■«=  ^'•*^''--  of  the 
himself,  but  that  edHnl  v"  """  ''  """'^  ''"- 
had  reached  the  outoo  'nf  ,  ^  J"'"^  "^  ""^  "^«  ''^X 
^e.^^tHe.ouXrL°::„^-S-^n.hs,,tr«>ps 

-  re'LTthH-L^Tary  tt  r^  '^"^"^  ^-'  -^^  -' 
■t  was  in,  nor  did  h^e  noTlt's  xact  iT  T  ""=  ^"^'  P^"' 
had  hurriedly  sketched  a  ro  I  f' °"  """'  '^'^arles 

and  intervenfng  '^"4         ^    ""'P  °'  ""^  battleground 

thetrdy  ~:e:rar^  '?  --'' '-  -- 

to  rest.    He  was  gZ  a  ho  se  /n   "'  "''''  "^'  ""  '™« 
clir  ■•-  ---    '-"-T  trrellfofti^ 

zia^dtrrrd---^^^^^^^^ 

'lesperate  Sepov^  ^  ^'"^  '°  ''^"''  ""''h  the  now 

n,om''  !."l"1  '!"  ''^«'^  l-'^Wy  turned  a,  the  ro-V-r- 
P.ured  uown   frotn  the  fountain  side!  sre^rn'^ 


MV    FRIEND    151 LL. 


everytliing  before  lliem.  \\  liat  a  luiul  clieer  went  up  as 
the  advancing  army  came  into  the  camp  of  their  besieged 
friends !  Charles  was  the  liero  of  the  hour,  and  well  lie 
might  have  been ! 

The  day  following  he  was  called  out  in  the  presence  of 
the  united  armies  and  decorated,  and.  although  but 
twenty-one  years  of  age,  was  made  a  captain,  it  was  a 
proud  day  for  his  family  in  Ivigland  when  news  of  his 
daring  deed  came  to  them.  He  returned  to  his  home 
shortly  after  this,  as  the  active  service  was  over,  the 
Sepoys  having  been  (luelled  and  a  mimber  of  them  shot 
from  cannon  as  a  civilizing  ( ?)  example  to  their  fellow- 
mutineers. 

Charles  had  another  tie  besides  his  family  to  call  him 
home.  On  a  neighlx)ring  estate  rlwelt  a  young  maiden 
whom  he  had  known  and  loved  from  his  childhood.  Fie 
and  Lady  Whiteside  had  during  the  years  of  his  absence 
kept  up  a  correspondence.  Her  welcome  to  the  young 
captain  was  quite  as  warm  as  that  of  his  own  family. 
His  father,  a  stern,  cold-hearted  man,  had  never  approved 
of  this  attachment.  He  had  other  notions  about  his  son's 
choice  in  the  selection  of  a  wife. 

"Charles,"  said  Lord  Lcighton  one  day,  shortlv  after 
his  son's  return,  "I  do  not  approve  of  Lady  Whiteside.  I 
have  selected  for  you  a  wife  more  suitable.  TIktc  is 
Lady  Tcalbrooke.  a  most  superior  woman,  and  one  T 
would  have  you  marry." 

"Yes,  father ;  but  she  is  much  older  than  T.  verv  ugly  in 
face  and  disposition,  and  cold  natured  ;  besides.  T  rlo  not 
love  her." 

"Love!  What  has  that  to  do  with  it?  Think  of  the 
lands  she  will  bring  to  you !" 

"Father,  in  reason  I  will  abide  your  decision  in  all 
things,  but  to  ask  me  to  marry  a  woman  whose  only  merit 


10 


MY   FRIEND  BII.L. 


iiiiough!     Sav  no  more      Fr()n,fh;.    .       r      ,    r 
childless.     Go-  then,  ic        ;  '  '^''>'  ^^'^^^  ^  am 

.v^HJ.  WHO  reUise  to  do  mv  will  " 

and  Lady  VVlmeskfe  «^  e  n    r   ed    v   ^''T'"'    ^''"'^'^ 
transferred  from  rnrli,,  '"  '''"-^'■'  '""x'  '"^  go' 

Four  ve'rsXr  I        "  ^'"■'■"""  ''"'>'  "'  England. 

all  ^hcs^Z^'l^ ;,TT'^ 'T'''^'-' '''''■  I^"""S 

r-ighton  w.;  r  ente^     '  S"  v        '"  T"'  "'"  ^^^ 
'"•'  nature.     Charles    e  Inedlr™;';',  ''''''  ^°f*^"^'' 

Anieriea  with  I,i,  u-if,  "1  ,      '"'  """"y  '"'"'^  <^ame  to 

almost  direct  to  Hin-hm„nf     nr  \,  They  came 

have  spoken  fnllv      wTeTih  '"■  '"'^'^^'^  ""^■''^  I 

h.rn  toEnHan  •  Od  Ir'-T"'  "'''">■  ''  '^'^^  '"  re- 
his  .son,  now  itr,,  I  i^;™''^'"'''™  ■•^"•™  "avin,^  died, 
They  were  ^o^:,  v  'e  ""nf^;"'?  '"  ■■"'^^"■^^"-• 
ff"h,s:  away  was  deepl,-  feU  h"  all         '^        "'  '"''  ""='■■■ 

^"«ncHhec,VKl^re:;::.t';;:n'rea,^  pf  ^\^^^ 
good  .soul  that  slie  wis    „.„     j  ^"-"^  mother, 

ferrin^him  to  wnV  h/,         '"  ''"^'^"■""  ^v  not  re- 
snbjec;  "'  ^''^  ''••'''  "^'^^■'"'-'.v  remarked  on  that 


)rc  than  I 


',  "do  you 

ever  love, 

rth  I  am 
3u  at  my 


was  cold 
>l)lc  son. 
lad  been 

Charles 
J  he  got 
id. 

During 
^t  Lord 
oftened 
:ame  to 
y  came 
^here  I 

to  re- 
^  died, 
itance. 
1  their 


nissed 
e  had 
other, 
O't  re- 
1  that 


CilAlTER   III. 

Conic  to  the  city,  Rube.     I'll  shoxv  you  the  sights  and 
htire  fun   :cith  you! 

]V\\\  had  often  invited  me  to  come  to  New  York  to  visit 
him.  "Come  to  the  city,  Rube.  I'll  show  you  tlie  sights 
and  have  fun  with  you."  I  had  a  great  longing  to  go. 
For  years,  on  each  recurrence  of  Bill's  visits  home,  he  had 
told  me  so  many  wonderful  things  al)out  New  York,  and 
spoke  so  familiarly  of  its  great  men.  that  1  thought  he 
was  on  most  intimate  terms  with  them.  This,  with  the 
fact  that  he  lived  on  Fifth  avenue,  had  always  kept  me 
from  accepting  his  invitation.  lUit  finally  I  could  resist 
no  longer.  I  surprised  the  family  one  day  by  telling  them 
that  I  was  going  to  New  York  to  see  Rill.  They  tried  to 
dissuade  me,  but  all  to  no  purpose.  It  had  taken  me  years 
to  decide,  and  I  was  now  determined  to  go.  T  did  not 
care  if  Rill  lived  in  the  finest  palace  on  the  avenue,  evcan 
though  next  door  to  a  man  of  millions.  It  was  all  the 
same  to  me,  now  that  I  had  made  up  my  mind.  I  did 
hope,  however,  that  he  would  not  make  me  spend  much  of 
my  time  visiting  among  his  rich  friends ;  I  was  afraid  I 
would  not  feel  comfortable.  I  did  not  write  to  him  that 
I  was  coming.  I  wanted  to  surprise  him.  and  subsequent 
events  proved  that  T  was  most  successful. 

I  will  not  try  to  tell  of  the  pleasures  of  the  coming. 
"My  first  ride  on  the  cars"  has  been  told  by  too  many  to 
have  left  in  the  telling  any  newness  to  the  storv.     vSufiice 

II 


12 


MY  I'KIEND   BILL. 


i  '5uni::r:i!'^S  '"r'^t.-^--  -- « ,...  won.. 

had  fairly  standi      T ,     ,  "•'  '•'">'  ■''""»'  '''•■f">-c-  1 

'^ecKvl  „fe  stage  '      "*"'"''  '"•'"  ^^  "«-'  ^^'^y  "a-l 

a'Wrcss,  ,o  one  who  i  f"    '  '  ''"'^'  '■'<='"  «^  "n 

no  thouphe  a     o  "o  V     "^  ""^-^'''r  '  ^'"""''  ''•"-•■  g'ven 
felt  that  IM  nm       o,      f        T'  "'^'  '"'■"''■     ^  -«  «' 

would  just  fi„  vv :"  h  Mv;;;  f:  '"""'•  ^"" "  ■■"'•  ^ 

friends  of  his  1  uZl  ,1  .T  "'  '""'"  "^  "'o^e  bifr 
to  either  tell  n,e,  or  f  ht  Z  "■"'""  "^  °"'>'  '""  >^'-> 
'hem  that  I  wa  a  fH  ,  o  Z^i  '"  T'  "'"  '<  '  '°'<' 
always  spoken  so  fam^arlv   'f    I  '  ''™"-"-     '''■"  '"''' 

Vork-,  that  I  was  sure  1  ev  1?  M  t'''  ^'■'''  "'^"  ''^  ^^^ 

I  wanted  to  ^  >         ^       "''^  ^"°"'  =""  about  him. 
a  carrS   ';r   'I.„'^':  Sir""  "li'T'  ^"  ^  "'™'^'''  '-  take 
-  '-f  f  can,e  L  ^^i'    .,7"      7'"-,'^'--1  fo  see 
trouble  in  finding  rcarriaee  a,  it  .        ""'  ^"^^  *«  '^^^^ 
■■"  tmvn  who  owned  a  e2w»  ''""  "''■"  '''''  ""''" 

and  knew  af  once  t  nt  V  r;'",'""  ''"■■  ^^'•''>'  "'at  <Iay 
word;  and  the  minute  T  T'  '  '"'^""'  ^  ''="'  'a-VI  a 
''an-h«,d  man  0      ;  Ir^T"?"'  '  ''<-"'  P'a.vod  foot- 

When  I  "came  to '•  la  f  nT'''  T'""  ^""^'''•'"  "'■''«  easy. 

"...if,oin,:,:„jr'r  c;;r;,;:'::™f'-'7-"<' 

ffoinp  with  me.     "Fait'  Oi  .i„,    .  '   "''""'^  ''-  was 

-vit ;  but  it's  wharive     ;  w     T"    l';  V'?":'"''  '""'<'  -^ 
wliere  Fifth  avenue  was       "r,'       \       "'  '"'"  ''  ^e  knew 
t"e  city  Oi  doan  Z:^    aJ':;:  ^^-"^'^  ^  P'-e  in 
viiitim   to  11,  ve  ahr."  'i^' >t  uanisr 


MY    I'KIKND   HILL. 


13 


That  dr  vcr  knew  tnon  ,'ii'  \:t  New  York  city  tluiii  a 
guidc-bixjk,  and  ho  was  so  soeiahle  and  wiUing  tc»  impart 
infunnati(Mi  that  1  (juiU'  forgave  liini  tlie  terrible  linslhiij; 
I  got  at  the  ferry,  I  asked  him,  as  a  sor  t>t  intnxhictiun, 
how  lie  gui  me,  seeing  there  were  so  many  utter  n>e. 

"Ve  may  wull  ask  thoi  saim.  an  1  thonk  mo  bruther,  who 
is  aim  the  fotjrce,  far  savin'  yer  loife  hy  puttin'  ye  -nto 
me  kerridge." 

"1  thought,"  said  1,  "they  were  uil  i>n  the  'force,'  the 
way  they  hustled  me." 

"Xo;  Ui  mane  me  hrutlier  is  aim  llu'  purless  foorce,  a 
is  stashunned  at  the  firry." 

Just  then  we  [>assi'd  through  a  woods  lot,  will  walk 
and  llowers,  and  benches  here  and  there,  with  all  sorts 
of  i)eopIc  sitting  aroinid,  as  thou;,'h  they  had  nothing  tn 
do  but  take  life  easy.  Jt  was  alt  very  beautiful,  'i'hc 
driver  said  the  place  was  called  VV  'shington  S(|uare.  I 
wanted  to  stop  a  while  and  Unik  at  ,  ,  but  he  would  have 
to  hurry  on,  he  said,  as  Fifth  aveiiiie  was  a  long  way 
off  yet. 

Kn  m  this  "square"  we  drove  out  in;  >  a  wide  road  that 
was  so  very  long  that  1  couldn't  see  tlv   other  end  of  it. 

Further  on  up  this  wide  pike  we  cai.ie  to  another  little 
"square."  The  driver  said  it  was  Madison  Square,  lie 
pointed  out  a  red  brick  house  across  tl  i'  way,  which  he 
said  was  Mister  Delnionico's  place  1  'lad  often  hoard 
Bill  speak  about  this  house,  but  he  .1  ways  called  it 
"Del's."  I  was  almost  sure  it  was  the  san  e  place.  No,  it 
could  not  be;  "Del's"  was  on  Fifth  av.  ime.  Tie  also 
pointed  out  another  big  house — a  big  st<  !ie  house — just 
across  to  the  west  from  the  "square."  "Tliare's  phare  the 
up-Sthate  pollytishrms  hould  vSunday  school."  T  could 
not  help  thinking  that  there  must  be  a  great  many  poli- 
ticians up  the  State  to  need  so  large  a  h(  use.      I    also 


'4 


MY   FKIEND  BILL. 


"""«lu  I.ovv  differem  New  York  nni;,'  • 

"■asc  in  IVnnsjlvania   whero  ,1,        P",]'""'"''  "'-■■•c  from 

">e  country  wonlj  S,     f,        '"'"""''  ^^■l'<x.l-i„n,sc  in 

■■<^i^  "o,"  -said  l.c    ",  ot  K     ,  '  '"'"^'  '"'■•'"•>•■ 

goi"'  to  tare  .lo«n  an,    UMl     "  V"'"°^^  '""■"  "'''>■  ^""• 

knew  how  to  <lh  a  "  °'  '"?'"'  """  -^'■■^'cr  Tilding 

called  the  Grand  "tnr"' '';,'', ""'  '"^  '"'"'".-  '-yant  it 

'"-  '"at  coj  'o,  jLr;;:;  :r'"  "'"^'  "•'-■■■^'  --  °f 

;'--'^,      \Vc  drove  a,o,  !'    ."ft         t™"^  ?"^'"  ••.^■"""•'" 
"le  ahnost  ashanicl  tliat  I  h.d  n       ,  "  '"''^  "  "'a^'e 

"ever  reach  Fifth  avc  te  sl  T  ■'"  "''"'  '^  "'^  "■°"'-l 
";at  we  had  con,e  .rN^ToH  "r  t!'^''' ^"°""''-' 
T^l'at  driver,  I,owcver   till  nd  "'"  "'''""ff  end. 

.   variotts  places  we  w^r     '     ,V."     i'"'",''"''^'-^-  ^''"•"  "'« 
'hin^s  abotn  the  people  wit    "^  ,'''"''  "*'  "'^  '^^  ">a"v 
-•XV.  that  r  scare  rvnotieed  /,!"■;'  '"  ""'  "^''''^^  °n  the 
forthatn,a,ter.the-ho"r  "t         '"""/'^  "'^'>'  Passed- 
horse.  I  ,„.  fort.„,ate    ,  '  n"^  ^f"  "''••"  ot,r  ol.l 

''»'c,  an  ahnndance  o    :  n  ■■  "t"'?"'  "'"■  "''■  f-'"' 

■satchel,  else  I  had  .^row,';  ver    r     '"  '"-■  '"''''  ""'"'^ 
■■cached  Bill's  ahvnt,  '  '"'"^'■•^'  "^fore  we  had 

"ca'rttr^^lhrt-r;''  "'^'  "^'-  -"-  -  were 
-«  "-  :     "Her'e  v'^a     "    ^  '\f  '"''  "'  ^"°"'- 
t 'np  .vc  hod."     rndced  it  w    ' ,  "'"''  "  '^"?'  'ajus 

than  mv  stan-e  .„^„,,  ',  '  "f'  '""•'^■'  ""'ch  lonc-er  in  ti' 

-       -■'^--■■'^°f">c  morning  fron,H,>hmont 


MY   FRI1-:XD    BILL 


15 


were  from 
jl-lioiise  in 
id  Sunday 

"t-  side  of 
luarry. 
thay  alir 
A-  D.,  if  • 
r  Tildin^r 
hey  ant  is 
■lling  me 
re  in  the 
uaiiued ; 

none  of 
Cintrir: 
it  made 
-  would 
ivinced 
.?  end. 
Hit  the 

many 
:^n  the' 
5sed — 
Lir  old 

from 
■arpet 
'  had 


"And  now,  Pat,  what  is  tlie  fare"  1  asked. 

"Wall,  Ui'll  hov  to  kalklatc.  C'<»rlkui(U  to  Washin.i^ton 
Sqare,  twenty-four  blox ;  Washington  vS(|are  to  Wan 
llundrid  and  Thurty-ate  strate,  is  wan  hundrid  and 
thurty-wan  more;  tliot  maix  wan  liundrid  and  fnfty-six 
I)l{)x  awl  tould — at  fure  cints  a  l)l(>k — $().4() — no.  $^>.24 — 
vis,  thot's  roight.  six  dalers  and  twinty-fnre  cints." 

I  told  him  tliat  he  was  mistaken ;  that  my  name  was 
not  Astor.     "I  am  no  milh'onaire." 

"Come  aff,  now;  yeez  name  wull  be  Dinnis  if  ye  (hs- 
pute  me  bill,  which  is  moast  rasinable,  aftlier  me  lang 
dhrive,  nat  to  minshun  the  grate  infurmaslum  Oi've  guv 
ye  cumin'  alang." 

I  finally  compromised  with  him  on  $5.  Then  I  started 
out  on  Fifth  avenue  to  hunt  for  Rill. 


were 
ther, 
a  jus 
h'mc 
ont. 


CilAPTlil^  IV. 
-Kmic,  what  is  il?    Name  U,  and  US  yours." 

fov^r:  ■r.r  ;rt  5"./^::.:- -s  ^""  ^'"'  ^-^^-^ 

-Hi  got  SO  sir ,  •"■  "'"^'^'"'^  ^°'  ■""-  -°»"'l, 

J  clidn't  know  a  soul,  ^22^  ^l,:""']  '°  ^^^-  -'"''= 
i"e  even  l>y  „an,e  '*""'''"  '  "'«  l^icw 

was  no  end  of  wonder  fhr>n  f.    ^^^ ^        ^^ ''^"''^^'■^^-    ^t 

t^^^  passed,  re.arJ^:t;;'r^:V^^ 

^vonder  when  he  Pot  in?"     kC  '  /^'"^''^  ^^-  ^^"'^cn.    1 

a    of  a  Whirl.     Ifor^ottoi!;    t^^^^ 

My  name  is  Adolphus  Ruben  Illrll      '         ^°"  ^^^^'^'*^- 
r^ennsylvania.  ^^"'^^"  ^I^ckenlooper,  of  Highniont, 

^    Iiad   divided  mv  firQf   r.. 
Scnnetimes  Adolph  Ruben   A?mT'  "!^  '"  ^""''"^  ^^vs, 
but  when  Bi„  ca'.e  bacl  'f fol^::  v'  T'  ''''''"'  ^•' 
vacaHon.V.idtbat.bep.ope/:bSlTe::,:^'£ 

16 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


17 


initial  of  the  first  name  and  the  full  middle  name.  Since 
then  1  iiave  always  written  it  A.  Ruben.  And  now,  to 
think  of  these  people,  utter  strangers  to  me,  in  a  far-away 
city,  knowing  me!  It  was  too  much  for  my  compre- 
hension ! 

Some  of  them  were  real  friendly  and  spoke  up  so 
sociable  like  that  it  made  me  feel  that  I  was  home  again. 
"Hullo,  Rube,"  said  one;  "when  did  you  come?"  1  told 
him  that  1  had  just  got  in.  •  "Glad  to  see  you.  How  arc 
the  folks  at  home  ?  Say,  Rube,  you  want  to  keep  off  the 
Bowery."  I  thanked  him.  Now,  how  did  he  know  that 
r  wanted  to  keep  off  the  l^owery  ?  That  was  one  of  the 
very  places  I  had  heard  Bill  speak  of  so  much  that  I  had 
determined  to  sec  it  as  soon  as  possible,  and  here  was  this 
fellow  telling  me  that  I  wanted  to  keep  off.  Tt  just  shows 
how  little  some  people  know  what  other  people  really 
want. 

Not  only  the  men.  but  the  women  as  well,  showed  a 
friendliness.  T  had  always  thought  of  the  New  York 
ladies  as  cold  and  haughty.  Not  so.  for  T  met  two  beauti- 
fully dressed  girls  as  I  came  down  the  avenue.  They  had 
just  come  out  of  one  of  those  palaces  that  lined  "he' way, 
and  were  about  to  enter  their  carriage,  which  was  waiting 
for  them  at  the  side  of  the  road,  as  T  passed  along.  They 
.smiled  real  friendly,  and  began  talking  to  each  other.  T 
could  only  hear  a  little  of  wliat  they  said.  One  remark, 
however,  seemed  very  odd  to  me : '  "Kittie,  what  is  it? 
Name  it.  and  it's  yours."  There  was  really  nothing  to  the 
remark,  and  yet  they  both  laughed  right  out  and  smiled 
at  me  as  they  were  driven  away  by  two  soldiers,  in  uni- 
form, who  sat  on  the  top  of  the  carriage. 

I  had  been  so  taken  up  with  the  people  T  met  that  T  had 
not  noticed  the  houses,  but  when  T  did  look  at  them  they 
looked  so  familiar  that  I  felt  I  had  seen  them  in  a  dreani 


i8 


MY  FRIEND   BILL. 


^Vlien,  liowever    J  <rnt    i 

«'-  <'river  had  ^a,,^;' ,  ^ ';.  ^^^J^-;  f-e  c,,arry,  .,,icl. 

te  Fifth  ave,n,e?  U^ZJ^T^^T"''  "-^^  -'>'<!  this 
fifth  avenue,  when  I  vas  '  "r  '^,''"  '"*•"-•"  ^  on 
fore?    I  asked  a  „,a„  ^Z  t     7  ''  f"  ''°"^  °^  '*«  be- 

'ool^-.'  just  hk-e  this  oL  ''^  it     T\ '"  ""'^  '°-"  'ha. 
Fifth  avenue,  and  ihit  ;,'.„„,,   *'■","'  ""■''''^  ^^-is  hut  one 
changed,  except  j     t  hefoTe  ^  "'^ ''''^ '''^^^ 
"P  to  give  wlk\o  th      "h  Sr-    T'""  :'"'  ""^  " 
'""ver,     I  was  sure  that  he  cou  1 1   /•  '"'^'"^  ^<^^  ^^e 
l^fow  a  siffht  of  things  for  n„.  '''"'"  "'  f°f  he  did 

I  had  not  hee«  ill  ;„  "'  '"  '"^  "-^H^-  °f  hfe.  . 
^hance  <h,rin,  Z  tg  ,;',":  ;?'!'  '^  ^'"-  O"  --y 
•^-w  hin,.  I  n,^-  one  ol  H  ,  '  tl  "  "'  ""^"P'^  '^  ">ey 
^'on,?,  who  had  suel,  a  ffold  H^  T'""'  "■"'"*-'  '^'^"^ely 
""ffl't  tell  ,ne  the  hes  ^^\:'Z'''  "}''  '  "'ought  hi 
'hat  wthout  an  address  I  :;    d    ^ L  a',     """■     ^^  '''' 

ft  IS  so  strange  "  T  told  t,-      <  f  °"^  '''■''"•<:''■ 

-ho  knows  Bi,f  'i  n  ster  T  '  ""''  '^'"'  ^^hody 
^a.d  himself,  or,  rather,'  "  J  llT  l""'  ""'''  ^'-^^^ 
*d  say,  I  was  under  the  ;^  *^  '"''''  f™"'  -hat  he 
^■•!".  avenue  knew  Mn! 'L;:  .T""  "^"  ^^'^^^''^  - 

I  am  afraid,  young  man   thit  v^      ,• 
Sreat  many  other  cotu.trv  ho   '  w!""  '"^"^'  «'"  '^  'i'<e  a 
They  stay  here  a  few  minth      "    '  '™f  '°  ^ew  York, 
f  ve  their  frien<is  the  in  n        „,"  ?  !'''^  r-'"">  home 
fellows  conu-ng  down  the 'A  •    .^    ""'^  ^-^  "'e  onlv 

He  asketl  me  niv  mm.  ,      ''' '"  'he  city.- 

'o '-"  and  ho!" ,  :ri ;;;:";  V""  ''-"■  -'-'  ^  ^-t 

,,  'h^h  t  know  what  he  ,neant   h„rT  '  '  ""'y  ""="■" 

■-"^''^'"H,ersto<,d.    He  wanted  to  kn:;:i'/-ri; 


MY   FRIEND    BILL. 


"arry,  which 
^v  it   was  no 
V  could   tliis 
places  be  on 
■  or  two  be- 
le  wanted  to 
s  town  that 
'»is  but  one 
f  and  never 
hey  dug  it 
led  for  the 
for  he  did 
ife.     . 

On  every 

pJe  if  they 
?  leisurely 
hough t  he 
He  said 
rch. 

1  anybody 
^1  always 
what  he 
^'body  on 

is  like  a 
vv  York, 
rn  home 

the  only 

Ml   I  got 

^Vhen  I 
^  well." 
i"st  as 
'  in  any 


19 


particular  hurry,  and,  if  not,  would  1  come  in  with  him, 
as  he  lived  "only  a  step  or  two  up  the  block."  I  was 
almost  afraid  to  go,  as  Bill  had  often  told  me  alx)ut  men 
called  "bunkoers,"  who  invite  you  in  and  "do  you,"  as  he 
said.  When  J  looked  at  this  man's  genial  face  I  knew  he 
would  never  "do"  anybody.  1  knew  I  was  safe,  and  said 
1  would  go  with  hii.i,  wondering  all  the  while  why  he 
should  want  me  as  a  visitor.  He  took  me  into  a  palace. 
I  wish  1  could  describe  it,  but  I  don't  know  what  words 
to  use,  as  1  had  never  seen  anything  like  it  before.  We 
sat  down,  and  he  then  told  me  why  he  had  invited  me  in. 
He  seemed  almost  sad  as  he  said: 

"Young  man,  you  have  told  me  that  you  live  far  away 
in  the  mountains  of  Pennsylvania,  so  far  removed  that 
you  see  nothing  of  the  outside  world.  I  would  have  you 
tell  me  some  of  the  humorous  stories  that  prevail  in  your 
cotmtry.  This  may  seem  to  you  a  very  strange  request, 
but  when  I  tell  you  that  I  am  what  they  call  an  after- 
dinner  speaker,  you  may  appreciate  my  position.  Here  I 
am  scarce  in  middle  life,  and  yet,  with  invitations  increas- 
ing, I  have  told  and  retold  all  the  funny  stories  extant.  I 
have  searched  in  foreign  lands  for  something  neav  and 
found  nothing.  I  have  carried  to  the  royalty  of  Euroi)e 
my  best  stories.  1  have  told  these  stories  on  one  visit, 
knowing  that  they  will  be  fully  understood  and  their  fine 
points  ai)]:)reciate(l  by  my  next.  But  now  I  have  nothing 
left  to  tell  which  I  have  not  told  and  retold  many  times 
before.  IMy  reputation  is  at  stake — yes,  young  man,  my 
very  reputation ;"  and  then,  almost  (les[>erate  in  his 
anxiety:  "Tell  me,  tell  me  but  one  gcxxl  story  that  is 
new,  and  I.  am  your  fiiend  always." 

Not  for  a  moment  would  T  have  believed  that  this  man 
was  a  humorist,  so  tragical  was  he  in  his  search  for  hu- 
mor.    I  could  not  deny  him  the  simple  request,  and  so  I 


20 


MY   FR  1I<:ND   bill. 


related  a  number  of  stories  I  had  lieard  Uncle  Dave  Carter 
and  Dave  Stoner  tell  of  winter  nights  as  we  all  sat  around 
the  old  stove  at  Carter's  tavern,  lie  was  wild  with  de- 
light as  I  told  these  simple  village  stories.  He  said  they 
were  nearly  all  new,  and  was  kind  enough  to  say  that  1 
told  them  wtII  ;  even  said  I  would  make  an  after-dinner 
speaker— if  I  took  enough  years'  time  for  it.  lie  invited 
me  to  call  at  some  other  time  and  to  let  him  know  when 
I  found  Bill. 

He  had  aroused  my  curiosity  to  know  .something  about 
after-dinner  speaking,  so  I  asked  him  what  they  did  at 
these  dinners.    He  looked  at  me  inquisitive  like  and  said : 
"Oh,  a  good  many  things,  young  man,  especially  at  some 
of  them  to  which   I  don't  get  an   invitation."  '  He  said 
that  if  I,  was  going  to  be  in  the  city  for  any  length  of  time 
he  would  get  me  an  invitation  to  one,  and  then  I  could  see 
for  myself.     I  was  delighted,  and  couldn't  help  wonder- 
ing what  the  people  of  Highn.ont  would  think  if  they 
knew  I  had  a  possible  chance  of  getting  an  invitation  to  a 
swell  New  York  dinner,  as  the  guest  of— whose  guest 
would  I  be,  anyhow?     Who  was  this  man?     He  hadn't 
thought  to  tell  me  his  name,  and  I  couldn't  ask  very  well ; 
but  I  knew  he  could  not  be  far  from  the  top.    Had  he  not 
spoken  of  the  royalty  of  Europe?     I  felt  just  then  almost 
as  well   pleased  as  though  I  had   found   Bill.     He  was 
profuse  in  his  thanks,  and,  as  I  was  going,  he  gave  me 
his  card.    When  I  looked  at  it  I  nearly  fell  down  the  steps, 
so  great  was  my  excitement.     Here  I  had  been  visit:  .g 
with  the  very  man  Bill  had  always  spoken  of  as  one  of 
the  best-known  men  in  the  world,  and  he  had  treated  me 
as  though  I  was  one  of  his  own  kind,  instead  of  looking 
upon  me  as  the  green  country  boy  that  I  was. 

T  soon  noticed  that  T  was  dressed  different  from  the 
men  I  met.    Nearly  every  one  had  "pants"  that  came  clear 


i 


^vl 


MY   FRIRNI)   lULL. 


21 


to  his  very  shoe  heels,  while  mine  only  came  half-way  up 
my  hoots.     They  wore  their  coat  sleeves,  as  I  thought, 
far  Ux)  long-  for  comfort,  while  none  of  them  had  a  nice, 
broad-hrimmed  hat  like  mhie.     Neither  had  any  of  them 
hair  so  lonp  as  mine.     In  short,  T  was  what  might  have 
been  termed  real  unique  in  my  dress.     It  must  have  been 
(|uite  a  marked  difference,  as  nearly  everybody  seemed  to 
take  a  lively  interest  in  my  appearance,  nuich  as  we  were 
when  a  stranger  came  to  our  village  dressed  differently 
from  us.    We  never,  however,  patterned  after  him,  as  our 
village  tailor,  who  was  also  our  barber  and  horse  doctor, 
always  used  to  say,  when  one  of  these  strangely  dressed 
fellows  came  around:    "That  man  don't  know  the  first 
thing  about  style."     But  we  never  tried  to  make  him  feel 
that  we  noticed,  as  we  just  thought  he  might  dress  as  he 
pleased;  and  I  guess  he  would  have  done  so,  anyhow, 
even  had  we  spoken  to  him  on  the  subject,  as  I  have  heard 
liill  say  that  city  people  were  very  set  in  their  ways. 

I  call  to  mind  one  young  fellow  in  particular  who  once 
came  to  Highmont,  hunting.     We  called  him  the  hunter, 
but  he  never  got  any  game  except  what  he  bought  from 
some  of  us  boys  who  could  shoot.     He'd  pay  us  two  prices 
for  it,  too — one  for  the  game  itself  and  the  other,  not  to 
tell  on  him,  wdien  he  would  be  bragging  about  his  good 
luck,  of  an  evening,  at  Carter's  tavern.     You  should  have 
seen  that  hunter.     He  had  three  trunks  of  clothes,  and 
changed  them  so  often  that  had  we  not  gotten  used  to 
his  face  we  would  have  thought  he  was  a  whole  company 
of  hunters.     He  had  a  peculiar  scar  on  his  right  check, 
which  he  said  he  had  gotten  in  a  duel  over  in  Gennany. 
where  he  had  been  at  college.     He  was  very  proud  of  that 
scar.     He  said  if  a  student  didn't  have  a  sword  cut  some- 
where about  his  face  or  head  that  he  w%qsn't  thonght  to  he 
anything.     For  my  part,  I'd  rather  be  a  large  nothing 


'■fi 


22 


J^IV   FRIKND   BILL. 


had  learned  of  thLuu.  T""-     "  ''^'  "^^^-^  '>' 

fellow-s.ndent's       „K     ,  ,v,™'''  "^^^ff-"'  'o  pay  for  a 

he  was  another  nrl  7"'  ?  '^°''  '''^"^"  "^  '^'^''-^^ 
"s.  He  won  d  Z^^'J^^  ""'"  --'""''  ^Peak  to 
l>ad  tie,l  to  a  stnW  nl  H  ?  ^  '^  P"'"  "^  S'^"  "'«  he 
heast  thae  he    V  ouW  Hk   T"  ,  "'  "'"^  '°"''  '"^  "''"I  - 

"s  a  little  bit    for     eh     °         I  "•     ^''"  "'""''  ^^^ 
,   ujL,  lor  we  had  seen  hm  shoof       Tu       ^i 

;Hat  had  everUIn  -rr    in^  "'^ir'  ";"'' 
they  were,  this  himtcr  was  all  th.    .  ,',     ,    ,       '"•'""  ''''''^'■*-' 

the  latter  part  of  ins  t^ree  wee  J  f^h      '",     ''"^^^" 
see  Hs  boys,  even  when  „,»  ^    ^  ^"''■'^  couldn't 

One  strange  Ihi^:  XtTt  r'''  ^'^"^'"f^  "'ffht  by  then,, 
when  he  left  tow"'  t  en SsT"  t"'^  "'"""-''  '^•-- 
day,  but  he  staved  riM.t  „ ,  ?  <  u  '"^■'  ■""  "'^  ■^'■''J?^  °"e 
when  nobody  ,spc"to  a  hi"  l""'"''  ^'■^"  ^"  ^'  ''"^'•■. 
"P,  as  it  were.  He  was  th  ^'l  ""^  ^o'— swallowed 
H.^h.ont  withotu  Lr^nowinl  i^  ^'""'"  '""  ^^^^  '^^' 

one  by  the  name  of  Will  am  4„  a^  '°"''^'"  «"<>  ^"y 
hank-er,  and  his  residence  aT  in  H  f  '  ."^''P'  °"^'  ^ 
couldn't  be  my  Bill.  Z^Tl^':''"''^^'',-  '  '"^^^^  ""^ 

-    " '-t  else  he  might  be,  he  was  no 


MV    FRIEND   BILL. 


23 


banker.  1  ^ave  up  tlic  search  for  tlic  clay,  and  wont  back 
up  the  ruad  tu  a  large  hotel  in  front  of  iMadison  Square, 
where  I  stayed  all  night.  Next  morning,  when  I  went  to 
the  desk  to  pay,  i  was  amused  when  the  fellow  with  a 
small  looking-glass  on  his  shirt  front  thought  I  wanted 
to  l)uy  the  room  1  had  used  for  the  night.  "No,"  I  told 
him.  "I  don't  need  it;  1  have  no  use  for  it.  Ik'sides,  how 
ran  1  take  it  with  me?"  1  was  anmsed  only  for  a  short 
time.  for.  when  he  said.  "That's  t!ie  price  for  the  night," 
it  all  Hashed  onto  me  then  that  that  was  why  even  the 
bankers  move  out  to  liackensack. 

A  real  nice  young  man.  who  had  heard  mi-  talking  with 
the  fellow  of  the  looking-glass  front,  told  me  that  if  I 
would  put  an  advertisement  in  the  newspapers  that  I 
wanted  a  room  and  hoard,  that  T  would  ixTha[)s  get  some 
answers,  and  I  could  select  from  them  a  nice  place.  He 
said  I  had  better  put  it  in  three  or  four  papers,  as,  if  only 
in  one,  the  people  who  keep  boanLrs  nu'ght  not  see  it. 
I  asked  him  where  I  could  find  the  i)apers.  and  if  there 
were  as  many  as  three  or  four  in  the  city.  "( )li,  yes,"  lie 
said,  "and.  as  f  am  going  downtf)wn.  f  will  show  you 
where  srmie  of  tlieui  are."  He  pointed  out  six.  and  .said  if 
he  only  had  the  time  that  he  would  point  out  the  rest,  but, 
that  being  his  busy  day.  ['d  have  to  l(W)k  them  out  myself.' 
I  forgot  to  say  that  tlie  looking-glass  man— to  show  me 
that  there  were  no  bar'  feeling.s— said  that  I  might  have 
the  answers  sent  to  his  ..otel. 

T  began  at  the  first  one— a  Gernian  paper.  The  clerk- 
was  very  sociable  and  nice.  He  told  me  how  to  write  the 
advertisement:  "W^anted— A  nice,  quiet  place,  quiet  and 
homelike,  to  board."  I  put  it  in  the  six  papers  which  the 
young  man  had  pointed  out.  I  didn't  say  it  always  the 
same  way — tried  to  see  how  m.anv  different  ways  I  could 
word  it,  but  T  never  failed  to  get  in  "quiet  and  home- 


24 


MV   FRiHXn    MFIJ,. 


"'e  a<l.  habit  ,o  .s.,cl,  an  extC    H.'T'T"       ":   '''"'"'^"' 

the  day  lunui,,^  out  the  m  ><     ,  '         ""  '''*  "^ 

"".«  have  fou,'l    tiLn    an       vTr  '""'"  '"  '"""■     ^ 

pocWet,.ok  at  the  e,K,  of    he    ay   Lt^Trr  °'  ?^ 
termined  to  finri  ^   «'  •  ^/•'ly'  f^"t,  then.  [  was  cle- 


'if 


CUAPTKR  V. 

"If  a  man  knew  on  Tuesday  what  he  finds  out  by  Satur- 
day, there  are  a  good  many  things  that  woidd  never 
happen." 

If  a  man  knew  on  Tuesday  wliat  he  finds  out  by  Satur- 
day, there  are  a  good    many    tilings    that  would  never 
hapix^n.     My  troubles  didn't  begin  all  at  once.    They  just 
grew  gradually,  but  a  very,  swift  "gradually"  it  was.     I 
put  in  the  "want"  on  Tuesday,  and  on  Wednesday  morn- 
ing went  up  to  the  hotel  in  the  hope  that  I  might  find 
some  replies.     "Did  I  find  some?"     I  did  ;  but  you  should 
have  be'^n  there  on  Thursday.      They    came    in— whole 
sacks  full  of  them — like  wheat  at  threshing  time.     The 
looking-glass  man  was  wild.     "Young    man,"    said    he, 
"this  is  your  work,  turning  our  hotel  into  a  postofiicc.    Our 
porters  can  do  nothing  all  day  but  handle  your  mail  " 

The  newspaper  reporters,  always  looking  for  something 
to  print,  swarmed  around  like  bees  at  a  sugar  cani]>,  and 
the  very  pafx^rs  that  had  taken  my  mone\'  on  Tuesday  came 
out  on  Friday  with  great  headlines,  such  as  ".\.   Ruben 

starts  an  endless  chain  at  the Hotel."     "A.  Ruben's 

correspondence  grows."  "He  wants  a  quiet  boarding 
place."  etc  Some  of  them  had  my  picture  and  a  sketch 
of  my  life.  l>oth  of  which  were  as  correct  as  pictures  and 
sketches  usually  are  in  the  daily  papers.  But  most  of  them 
confined  themselves  to  reporting  the  great  rush  of  business 
at  the  hotel.     By  Saturday  the  suburban  towns  began  to 

25 


26 


MV   FKIHXD   BILL. 


1-c  l.car.l  from,  with:  "I  have  jnst  mxiccl  your  adverlise- 
mont,  an.l  I  a.n  sur.  I  have  the  very  place  yoi,  are  l,K,l<ing 
lor.       ilaiiy  of  tlie  «rite.-s,  ,K,t  satisflnl   with  e.xtoMinir 
he.r  ,,lac-e.s,  wem  on  to  ^ive  a  complete  history  of  their 
fain.ly    ••merely  to  show  y„„  who  we  are-that  we  are 
not  onhnary  jK-ople."     What,  with  letter.,  .still  eonn-ni-  in 
from  the  c,ty,  an,l  the  comury  replie.s    ad.le.l    to   then, 
thinffs  were  very  exciting  at  this  particular  hotel      The 
clerk  grew  ,les,x,.rate  an,l  „ai,l  if  I  wonhl  only  change  my 

a<I.Ire,ss  tl,at  he  w ,1  give  ,„e  hack  what  he'ha.l  charge,! 

for  the  room  and  pay  ,ne  ten  .lollar.s  Upsides.    I  had  hanlly 
accepts  the  offer  when  a  real  hright-looking  young  n,a, 
cante  upand  sat.I  that  he  had  hecn  huuting  form.^^id  he 
would  g,ve  n,e  twenty-five  dollars  for  „,y  ,nail.  and  that  I 
S  .     Irnngc  n,y  a,l,  ress  to  his  office     I  couhl  not  think 

n    d       '     >  ~"'''  "f:  "'  "•  '""  '  -■^■'•'"'«'  '-  off-  and 
ma  le  the  change,  gla.l  to  get  out  of  the  .natter  .so  easilv 

and  so  much  ahead  in  the  transaction.    1  learncl  that  he 

I'ottght  the  mad  for  the  addresses.    He  told  ,ne  a  we  k 

or  .so  after  that  l,e  had  never  before  known  that  New  Yo  k 

-  al  h,»„es,ck,  he  said,  to  read  sotne  of  the  letters.    He  was 

irotn  a  large  town  in  Pennsvlvauia.  he  1 „,e 

I  .^elected  a  place  on  a  side  street,  near  Pifth  avenue 

"lysclf  I  shall  never  forget  mv  first  sup,^r-or  is  thov 
called  It,  <Iinner.  Everybodv  was  so  sociable  wl'  I 
wanted  to  talk  .vith  me.     I  had  never  cou  ,V1  r«l'  m      1^ 

me  realbol  L  t  ^T  "'  "'^  ^'°""^  "-"  -'""-l  to 

«as  a  cerk  m  the  thread  department  of  a  Sixth  aventte 


■mw 


MV    FklKND    nil  A. 


27 


j,lurc,  s;'id :  "The  way  the  President  is  ninniii^^  tlie  affairs 
of  this  Isation  is  an  outrage.  If  I  had  tlie  matters  in  hand, 
they  would  be  run  in  an  akugether  different  manner." 
Then,  turning  to  me,  he  wanted  to  know  :  "Rnbni,  what  do 
you  thini<  of  it  ?     VVliat  is  your  oi>ini(;n  ?" 

"I  have  no  opinion."  said  I.  "ii  1  could  tell  the  IVesi- 
deut  h(.w  to  run  the  national  affairs  he  mi^^dit  want  me  in 
his  Cabinet,  and  I  haven't  the  time;  1  am  luTe  hunti.ij-  for 
my  friend  liill."  Tliei,  they  all  lau^dicd.  and  the  youuK 
statesman  st(>pi>ed  talkin^^  1  was  real  sorrv.  because  ho 
was  a  g(x>d  talker  and  I  liked  to  hear  him. 

Another  of  the  men— "The  Heathen,"  they  called  him— 
like  all  heathens,  he  iieemed  to  think  that  everybody  l>ut 
himself  was  in  the  wron.tj:.  There  was  nothin^r  in  the  l^iblc 
worth  believing—the  whole  thing  was  one  great  big  mis- 
take.  lie  said  that  Moses— "if  there  ever  was  such  a  per- 
son as  Moses— nad  made  a  great  many  mistakes"— as  he 
said— "many  were  very  grievous  mistakes."  Then,  like 
the  young  statesman,  he  wanted  to  know  of  me  if  I  didn't 
tliMik  so,  too.^ 

"Oh,  yes,"  siiid  I,  "I  iruess  he  did;  hut  he  should  Ive 
pardoned,  as  he  never  had  the  advantages  r>f  a  New  York 
boarding-house,  where  he  might  have  learned  just  what 
to  do  to  escape  those  grave  errors  of  which  he  is  accused  " 
He  looked  very  angry  just  then,  but  he  did  not  say  anv- 
thmg  more  about  Moses. 

They  talked  alwut  many  things  T  had  never  before  heard 
of.  A  fine-looking  young  man  at  mv  left,  who  I  learned 
next  day  from  one  of  the  other  boarders  was  an  actor  in 
the  theatre— or  expected  to  be  as  soon  as  his  agent  fotmd 
hmi  a  place-told  us  all  about  whv  a  man  by  the  name  of 
Forrest  was  not  a  real  good  actor.  I  was  much  interested 
in  his  great  display  of  theatrical  knowledge,  but  feared  for 
the  young  man,  if  this  .\rr.  Forrest  should  ever  get  to  hear 


28 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


I 


what  I,e  l,acl  said  about  him.  I  said  as  ntuch  to  the  lady 
wlto  sat  at  my  skW.  ■•!  wo,„lor,-  said  I,  "what  Mr  Forrest 
;:;:  IT^'  'y;f  f -'^  ^ear  the  way  his  character  ifb^ 

,  '  '"•".    saw  1,    tlie  young  man  s  safe  " 

I  never  heard  so  many  weighty  matters  decided  so  cm, 
c  ustvely  before  as  at  that  table.    It  made  me   eef  as  I  Tat" 
lect«,      v"'"^;  that  my  education  had  been  s  d  y  L" 
lected.     Very  few  subjects  on  which  they  discoursed  so 
ab|y  had  I  ever  even  heard  mentioned  before. 

Ruben,    asked  tl,e  man  with  the  red  whislcers   "wh,t 
do  you  do  in  winter  time  out  where  yorive  "'  I 
very  grateful  to  him,  for  I  was  beginning    o  fL  ou^"; 

get  the  turkey"  ''"'"  "^"  '''"^'^  ''^^  ^est  always 

"Not  always,"  I  answered. 

"Wily  not  always  ?"     Then  T  hnH  f^  f.n  u 
..•n.  when  the  othl  fellow  g^t  the  tt^S'  """  ^"""^  ""^ 


ii 


CHAPTER  VI. 
"//  is  not  always  Ike  best  shot  that  wms  the  turkey." 

one  day-<,ne  Chnstmas  day,  I  remember  it  well      There 
was  go,ng  to  be  a  great  shooting  match  ,lown   in  'the 
woods  pasture       It  had  been  talked  about  so  much  that 
felt  I  just  cou  dn  t  m,ss  it.    I  knew  what  the  penalty  would 
be   f  father  shouhl  get  to  hear  of  nw  being   here  but  vo 
all  know  the  risk  the  boys  will  take  to  do  son,etl  ing  tC 
know  ,s  forb.dcen  them  to  do.     Well,  I  wen,.     Du      g 
he  early  part  of  the  match  I  bung  aroun.i  tl,e  edge  of  the 

.1m       u*^  '  "'''°''  "=°''  °f  ^"i^i'l  '»vs  of  mv  size 

I  came  boldly  out  and  watched  the  game.     There  was 

Captam  Scott  Martin,  captain  of  the  old  m  litia    Ipanv 

winch  d,d  great  service-in  the  village-up  to  t^  time 

hey  were  about  to  be  called  out  for  active  se  vice   wZ 

il  u  °"'<='-^-^'l  ffood  'shots.'    One  after 

another  won  h,s  turkey.  The  interest  ran  high  Scot 
Martm  was  ahead,  with  four  turkeys  to  the  goS'  T  w^ 
now  ecommg  fairly  wild  with  the  excitement'  Wh! 
matter  if  I  had  ^en  taiio-lit  th-^i-  .v  »v"«it 

^hoot  for  turkev.!  t,^!  t    'V  ;    '^''^   '''■  '" 

the  verv  last  turk^    t!      "       '       """^  '"^  ''"'<'  <^>'<='''  was 

very  last  turkey  bemg  put  up-the  last  one-the  finest 

3Q 


30 


MY  FRIEND  HILL. 


old   gobbler  of  the  lot?    Men,  I  cofldn't  stand  it     Tl,e 
temp^uon  was  too  great  for  my  young  sporting  blood 
had  ten  cents   and  took  a  chance.     Now  for  the  trial  of 
.1    nton  aga,„st  the  boy,  an.l  1  .he.,x,y.    E.xcited!  do  you 

'•  -Good  shot;  cried  the  marker.     Next,  Joe  Ritter  let 

<Ioor.      John  M,it  ,„ade  a  good  shot,  while  John  Flick 
cm^u..  n,s,de  of  Martin  s  try.     But  when  iC  N  ff 
"ho  had  just  arrived,  came  .,p  to  shoot,  everybody  as 
good  as  conceded  to  bin,  ,he  turkev,  he  being  the  be! 
marksman  m  the  county,  with  perhaps  the  exfep  ion  o 
;"s  old  ,„,cle,  Abe  Shockey,  the  deer  hunter  and  t  Zer 
run,,  knew  that  there  was  very  little  space  for  a  b!  1 
be,,,g  i^aced  between  the  last  shot  and  the  ce  t  e      H 

h  'tae  •«:::  ;:"■■  ■'•■"'  "'■";  "-^  «••«' '-  --  -  -ar 

our   '  anc  he         ^         """^  °"''  '^'-'^"^^n,  the  bird's 
jours,  and  he  went  over  and  picked  it  up. 

out  at  the  ton"  f'"'  "''"'  "'^"^  ="'  ''"Sh  wh..,  I  piped 
out,  at  the  top  of  my  vo.ce :  'Say,  I  hain't  shot  vit  r' 

^•ou  the    M-r"  'T,  T'  >'°"'"  P°"-<'^'-'  ""'l  Turm  will  give 
you  the    drumstick,"  won't    you  "Daddv"?'      ^T 

had  no  end  of  nicknames  )  ^  ^^"™^ 

"extT-ear^"'r'  '"n^  '"'  T  ""'^  '"-^^  •™"  ""''y  '^oot 

uicv  1.1  me  snoot.  I  suppose  to  p  ease  me     T  hor] 
been  used  to  a  gun  ever  since  I  was  five  vearrold    n 
earhest  prayer.  T  remen,ber.  was  for  a  g  ,„  a„rf  f^^ 
Everybody  was  now  on  tip-toe  of  excitement-  he  novlTv 
of  seemga  child  take  p.-,r,  in  ,  t,.H.,..  .,...■  °^^"> 

I    -     -.  d  u.r.KCv  shooting  match 


fcS 


.MV    FKIKXU    KILL 


31 


and  U,at  duU   the  son  of  a  deacon,  who  thought  evory- 
ihing:  was  w,cke<l  that  l,ad  the  smallest  n.ite  of  sport  in  iti 
was  great,  even  in  a  co.nitry  where  boys  were  taught  to 
.use  firearn.s.     Being  'only  a  liltle  (..v,'  they  let  n,e  'rest" 
my  gun  on  a  b,g  stone.     I  t<x,k,  oh  !  such  good  aim   held 
my  hreath_and-pulled  the  trigger.     VVht.ther  by  a  ci 
Inn  or  ac.ua  skdl.  /-s.ruck-.he  verv-con,re.  a,   1         , 
the  finest  turkey  of  the  <lay.    The  cheer  that  wen,  t, ,  . 
my  supposed  fine  n,arksn,anship  was  so  loud  tha  oke 

up  my  conscience  to  the  eno™,ity  of  the  crime  I  had  jus 
commmed.     Why  had  I  gan,b.ed,  and  won  a  try       a 
hootmg  match?     I,  the  goo<i  little  Sun.lav  school  b' 
hootmg  for  a  turkey!     I  remember  to  tl,is  day  how  I 
e It  under  the  .ashing  of  conscience  at  that  h ot     '  B^h 

'■  'Rube.'  said  he,  'I  want  that  turkey  ' 

'You  shall  not  haye  it.'  I  cried.     'It's  mine  ■  I  be-tt  all 
the  men  and  won  it  fairly.'  '  ^" 

tin?°r"  ^'^'^''  '■'•  J"'^"  "■""'''"'»  '^^"  "gue  the  cue, 
t.on  w,th  me.    He  just  stood  there  and  said :  'Rube  I  wa't 
that  turkey,  and  if  yot,  don't  giye  it  to  me  VUf'n 

^:^:it,a'„?;::Ti:e^^Lr  -^v'-  "-^  j°"" 

-m.er  Of  the  other  L:^:;i';:\r£:^^^ 

-a-<er"  out' ofT^td  irlt't":  ^y  yXl'""'' 

practice,     r  have  thought  nnnv  fin.  '  .     ^     "^  '"^ 

iin'u,^iii  uianv  tunes  sinrp  th^f  tu^ 

only  wanting  to  haye  "f,„,  wij,,    „,,  "'™'  '^'''"^"^ 


!m 


Z2 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


I!  f 


lx>y  and  the  city  boy.     I  talked  much  as  though  "speaking 
a  piece."  ^ 

"The  comury  boy  is  born  and  "raised"  amid  surround- 
ings that  seldom  change.     Winter  follows  summer,  and 
sunmier  m  turn  follows  winter.     The  seed  is  sown  and  the 
harvest  is  gathered.     The  years  come  and  go,  one  so  like 
the  other  that  he  scarce  notes  their  flight.    He  sees  nothing 
new,  he  hears  nothing  new.     The  teacher  at  the  village 
school-and  usually  there  is  a  new  one  each  year-begins 
in  the  fall  and  gets  just  so  far  by  spring.    Next  year  it  is 
the  same  routine.    If  the  boy  has  learned  anything,  it  is  no 
credit  to  the  teacher,  but  in  spite  of  the  teacher,  who  in 
many  cases,  has  taken  the  position  as  a  means  of  getting 
n^one^  for  his  own  education-which  he  is  so  sadly  in  need 
of.     The  preacher  (this  refers  to  the  old  school,  not  the 
progressive  new)  he  has  to  listen  to,  or  be  "licked  "  is 
usually  one  who  can't  possibly  get  a  "call"  any  place  'else. 
While  this  preacher  may  not  be  brilliant,  he  is  real  good-, 
that  s  all,  just  good-but,  oh,  how  long  he  can  preach,  as 
though  he  were  working  by  the  hour  and  wanted  to  get  in 
all  the  time  he  could.     I  used  to  call   them  "opiates." 
Father  never  heard  me  call  them  that  but  once-that  once 

hat  father  and  I  were  in  different  localities  when  I  had 
augh  o  say  on  the  subject  of  "opiates."  That  reminds 
me  of  how  angry  I  got  at  Bill  one  day.  He  and  I  were 
at  preaching,  ,t  was  in  about  the  third  hour  of  the  dis 
cot.se  when  he  woke  me  up  all  of  a  sudden  to  look  acroL" 
a  A  nt  Sinda,  who  was  sound  asleep.    It  was  very  mean 

the  ]>ook  that  passes  the  scrutiny  of/the  committee   com- 

oTttr  r'  'r  '•'''''-'  '^^^^"  ^"^  --  --b- 

nights  to rar^"'^'  '^  "°^  ^"^  ^°  "^^'^  ^  '^y  ^'-  "P  o' 


* 


'speaking 

urroiind- 
ner,  and 
1  and  the 
e  so  like 

nothing 
i  village 
—begins 
ear  it  is 
,  it  is  no 
who,  in 

getting 

in  need 
not  the 
:ed,"  is 
ce  else, 
good — 
ach,  as 
>  get  in 
>iates." 
It  once 

to  see 

I  had 
-minds 
[  ^vere 
le  dis- 
across 

mean 
^y,  but 

com- 
mbers 
up  o' 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


33 


"r  nuist  not  forget  to  ni.ntion  the  ••hired  hand/'     1  Ic  is 

i'^  nl>  o^cr      Ihe  echicat.on  which  the  countrv  bov  gets 

I  he  lured  hand  ks  never  happier  than  u  lien  he  can  get 
a  loy  to  beheve  his  stories.  My  experience  with  hiu  a^  s 
-e  to  beheve  that  Munchausen  was  a  -hire.!  hand  'I 
^^as  always  a  favorite  boy  with  hinwthe  "hired  nrd  '' 
not  Munchausen.  He  told  me  manv  strange  hjttt 
occurred  in  •'the  ould  counthrv."  They  "iwnv 
nwif  /^«r       1-1  '  -^  "*->  aiua\s  (iccurred 

aua>  off,  wluch  gave  them  added  wondennetU   for  Z 

As  an  illustration  of  these  storfp.    T  ti  •  i    ■ 

n-n^     1  "^"^.M-  hiories,  i  think  it  was  Dctini'c 

U  Donahue,  or— well   f  nm  «i,r»  i,-    r    .  '^-^^  uumis 

with  ^n,,,.       iw\  ■  ""  "'"'  "'""•  '■"^''■•■"'  <'f 

-^^^^rlu"  ""'  "'  ''''''''-'  "'^^  >-  ^'^  a  J"-in  aigs 
.    '".'  fgs— thin  ye  g,t  a  noise,  gintle  cit    nn,l  ^i    T 

ai,q-ssitthecat,andwhinthea.V,hn    I  f     ^'^'"  ^'^^ 

ti^at  has  the  duhhie  pow      ofth^c  ^  "^^ 

fctird  part  cHiz  the  flvi,7n    ,  /,  ^^  '''''^  ^^''  l>urd-^thc 

of  ^1-  .aim  i;  ^,     ".n^,  ^^7^7-  ;'-  the  catchin' 

lau  agin  it "  ^  '     ^^  ^"^^^  ^he  gun,  and  no 

--tt  :•;■  rar„V'oTi:  r '■  t  ^^^  -■"  -^ '- 

I  spent  that  whole  ifternn  '    f^'^^'^'      ^  ^ememher  how 

.o  siont  "o,„  ^r;:\:q™^  :>■:;,;:;::':;-  "o"'  ^--^ 

Hi^l-n,ontrs„n;   :;•,'"'""  'V"*"  '^  "^  ^•^■"^  "^  "ve  at 


34 


MY  fril:xd  bill. 


I 


'\l 


C' 


"  i 

i 


If  f 


the  otiicr  Alilce  was  called  Uittle  Mike,  but  when  he 
grew  up  to  be  a  man  they  were  both  little,  and  the  name 
seemed  not  appropriate,  so  they  went  one  bcino-  one  '•(  )ld 
iMike    and  the  other  "The  Other  .Mike." 

\yhc>n  I  was  young  1  was  very  good.  The  younger 
tie  better  I  was.  I  used  to  try  to  get  the  hired  hands  to 
go  with  me  to  "meeting." 

r  never  sueceeded  with  Old  Mike  but  once,  and  then  I 
remember  [  was  very  much  frightened  in  the  second  hour 
of  he  sermon.      The  preacher  was  on  the  subject  of  Sam- 
son     Aow,  as  long  as  he  talked  about  the  great  strength 
of  that  g.ant  it  was  all  right,  but  the  verv  moment' he 
began  to  draw  comparisons  with  other  gian;s  I  could  see 
tlia    there  was  trouble  in  Old  Mike's  eye.     I  should  have 
spoken  of  a  peculiarity  of  some  of  the  old-school  expound- 
ers,    i  hey  thoug  U,  to  be  impressive,  that  thev  must  sing 
he.r  sermons.     1  his  particular  preacher  was  a  meml>er  of 
tliat  sciool  m  good  standing.     To  sav.  however,  that  he 
sang  his  sermon  does  not  mean  that  he  liad  a  musical 
voice;  far  from  it.     He  rather  sang  it  on  a  tremolo  kev 
with  a  rising  and  falling  inflection,  but  with  no  regularitv 
of  tone  whatever-sort  of  a  "go  as  you  please"  stvle-^but 
one  winch  was  not  a  pleasing  style,  bv  anv  means' 

As  I  was  saying,  the  preacher  was  on  the  subject  of 
damson      He  was  going  along  somewhere  between  the 

T.ll.    T  r^  '^:"  ^''''  '"''  ''''^'  '^''  ^'^"^'  ^^'^^--  I^e 
stopped  to  dwell  on  the  great  strength  of  his  subject      To 

mke  It  more  impressive,  he  was  wont  to  repeat  a'good 

''Yes.  dear  brethering."  he  sang.  "Samsing  was  a  terri- 
ble  giant.  Of  all  the  terrible  giants  that  ever  liled 
Samsmg  was  the  terriblest."  Old  Mike  grew  uneasv  he 
seemed  about  to  get  up.  but  T  held  him  down  with  mv'little 
hand  as  best  I  could,  while  the  preaclier  went  on,  now 
fully  wrought  up  with  his  subject: 


MV   FRIEND   BILL. 


when  he 
the  name 
Dne  "Old 

youn^ei-er 
hands  to 

d  then  I 
>nd  hour 
of  Sam- 
streng-th 
iient  lie 
:jnld  see 
lid  have 
cpound- 
-ist  sin^ 
:nlx^r  of 
that  he 
musical 
3lo  key 
rularity 
le — ^but 

ject  of 
en  the 
hen  he 
t.  To 
I  good 

L  terri- 
Hved, 
sy;  he 
V  little 
,  now 


35 


"Vcs,  dear  brethering.  Samson  was  a  tcrrii)lc  giant. 
Of  all  the  terrible  giants  that  ever  lived,  Samson  was  the 
terriblest.  He  could  take  all  the  other  giants  that  ever 
lived  and  handle  them  as  easy  as  a  schwlmami  cuuld 
handle  the  'baby  class.'  " 

This  was  too  much  for  Old  Mike's  loyally  to  one  of  the 
giants  of  the  "ould  country."  JIc  jumped  up  on  the  seat, 
and.  trenibling  with  rage,  told  th.e  preacher:  "Thot's  a  lie 
far  ye.  Thare's  Filly  .Mackcx),  fram  the  Nartli  of  Oiro- 
land,  who  could  whup  hill's  blazes  out  of  hini  in  wan 
minut,"  and  out  he  stalked,  pulling  me  after  him.  lie 
never  would  go  with  me  to  meeting  again  after  that. 

The  poor  man  died  last  summer.  Some  said  he  was  io6 
years  old;  some  said  he  was  only  90.  His  own  family 
did  not  know,  but  nobody  ever  denied  that  he  was  "Old 
Mike." 

-  *  *  *  *  H.  =,  ,, 

I  must  not  forget  "T.randy."  I  never  knew  whv  they 
called  him  that,  but  "P.randy"  is  the  onlv  name  I  now  r/- 
niember  as  belonging  to  him.  People  who  knew  said  he 
^^^s  a  typical  Southern  darkey.  He  came  to  Highmont 
after  the  "wah."     Brandy  asked  me  one  dav  • 

"Rube,  du  yu  kno'  why  de  dahkies  nevah  gits  de  mania 
pouchey— de  delerium  tremblers?" 

"Xo.  Brandy."  said  I.  "I  do  not." 

driT'"'  ^f";  •■■?  '''^  ''''  '^''  '"'^y-     ^'  '^^^'^'^'^  ^^^  ^^"n 
c  rink,  and  da  drink,  and  da  drink,  but  jest  fob  da  gits  em 

clar  munny  jrjns  out  an'  da  dun  haf  tu  stop  " 

rich  Itcj ''"''''" '"^'  '"^ '^^"^'>' --^  ^>- -y 

heating.       He  called  to  me:  "Rul>e.  whp'.  rUf  t^.„.,| 
SKupe  shuvul-     "Wait  a  minute  till   I  think"  slid  I 
trying  to  recall  where  it  had  been  left,  but  something  tool' 


36 


MY  FKIEND  BILL. 


!i 


li 


my  attention  just  at  that  time.  1  forgot  all  abount  Brandy 
until  almost  night,  when  I  went  out  to  the  barn  and  found 
him  sound  asleep. 

"Here,  Urandy ;  wake  up.     What  have  you  been  doing- 
all  tlie  afternoon?" 

"Massah  Kube,  I  wus  dun  waitin'  foh  yu  tu  fink,  jes' 
like  yu  dun  tole  me  tu." 

^'^  ******  * 

Then  tliere  was  Jake,  from  Holland.  Jake  told  us 
children  such  horrible  stories  about  Holland  that  I  have 
never  been  proud  of  my  great  grandmother's  native  home 
smce.  But  Jake  went  to  Baltimore,  and  from  a  "hired 
hand"  he  became  a  millionaire,  so  I  have  long  ago  for- 
given him. 


* 


■■ii 


Worse  tlian  hired  hands  are  the  hired  girls.     They  run 
to  witch  stones  Lnd  are  never  happier  than  when  they 
can  get  the  country  boy  so  frightened  that  he  cannot  sleep 
Her  stories  make  him  real  glad  that  they  once  burned 
witches  in  Salem. 

Now,  with  this  line  of  education,  is  it  any  wonder  that 
the  country  boy  is  not  up  to  date  ? 

On  the  other  hand,  is  the  city  bov.     All  I  know  of  him 
IS  what  Bill  told  me.    Bill  says  he  is  brought  up  more  care- 
fully  than  our  sweet  potato  plants  in  the  spring.    He  has  a 
nurse  to  watch  over  him  and  a  teacher  all  to  himself 
who  has  nothing  to  do  but  just  see  that  his  A   B   C's  are 
correctly  learned.     He  is  sent  away  to  college,  where  he 
learns  football,  boxing, .  rowing  and  other  branches,  and 
comes  out  a  polished  gentleman  and  joins  a  club  called  the 
i^our  Hundred. 

I  was  greatly  surprised  one  dav  when  Bill  told  me  all 
these  things  about  the  city  boy,  to  have  him  finish  with  • 
But,  then,  most  of  the  great  men  of  New  York  citv  were 
brought  up  in  the  country." 


iiit  Brandy 
and  found 

)ccn  doing' 

i  fink,  jes* 


2   told   us 

at  I  have 

tive  Iionie 

a  "hired 

ago  for- 


rhey  run 
hen  they 
lot  sleep. 
2  burned 

ider  that 

V  of  him 
)rei  care- 
ie  has  a 
himself, 
C's  are 
here  he 
les,  and 
-lied  the 


me  all 

h  with: 
tv  were 


K 

V^iri 

'^'£3 

!i/  A 

,  VHP   ■  .'■*                            ,.;«.. 

W 

|3R^ '        "*"■"    *"   "^^^^^^   iJ^ 

b^  '^^•■■''''(■Wb4wus*,  ">*i^~~ 

^'              / 

'Mp\|B|i 

£.       / . 

1    ^A^iijaaaiWHPyi^WI^M^MBiMliillliJ.  f  ^.^f^^^^^^l^^^H 

-iq-* 
1          '                                                              , 

~  X. 


^    - 


i     :l. 


r-     ct 


LlIAi'TKR  Ml. 


''Bctwcni  Ireland  and  the  ralicy  of  llrgima,  Xczv  York 
IS  having  a  close  call." 

At  this  point  the  Jlio-raphor,  wlio  sat  over  at  a  side 
tal.le,  became  very  enthusiastic  in  praise  of  the  ••cMuntry 
bunipkni."  as  the  smart  hoarder  had  called  us  The 
Iho^rrapher  had  been  a  country  boy  himself  an<l  had  mucii 
to^say  in  praise  of  liim.     Said  he,  amon.ir  other  thinos  • 

ihe  most  remarkable  instance  I  know  is  ,,f  a  lar-e 
mimber  of  youn-  men  who  came  to  New  York  fr..m'\ 
httle  town  in  the  \'alley  of  A'irf^inia. 

•So  many  had  left  the  villao-e  that  those  few  who  re- 
mamed  were  as  popular  with  the  .c,nrls  as  the  man  at  a 
siniinicr  resort. 

"They  canic  lo  tins  .qrcat  city,  an.l  from  a  small  l,on-in- 
mng  as  tliey  were  all  poor,  liave  worked  their  ,,  av  „n  to 
leforetttost  positions  in  finance,  conmterce,  the  profes- 
sons  and  poI,„cs-especially  politics_so  manv  l,avin<. 
already  Lccome  leaders  and  Asscntblvmen  that  l,et«een 
IrdatKl  and  the  ^•alley  of  ^•irginia  Keu-  York  is  havi,,,  a 

who  rr'V'"''''^'  P'""^"'"''^^'-^-  °f  ""<=  of  tliese  \'ir.^inians, 

a  mill  ona.re,    and    known    thronghont    the   lencnh    and 
I^readth  of  the  conntrv  as  'the  Merchant  Prince  ' 

Men  who  were  high  in  comntercial  life  when  he  came 

37 


I 


f-:i 


3« 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


m 
I 

I 'IS:  I" 


If 


to  New  York,  and  who  refused  liiin  a  place,  i.ave  since 

worked  for  him  as  clerks. 

"lie  has  never  furyutten  his  old  homo,  and  scarce  a 

year  passes  that  he  does  not  send  thousands  of  dollars   for 
various  purposes,  to  Virr^inia. 

^Monuments  of  stone  and  marble  stand  to-dav  in  many 
a  Southern  city  as  gifts  fn.m  liiii  once  poor  country  boy 
but  now  generous  man  of  wealth.  Xor  is  his  generositV 
bounc  ed  by  a  Southern  line,  as  here  and  there  are  Ix-ing 
placed  statues  of  enduring  bronze  in  nianv  of  our  North- 
ern parks. 

;*The  declining  days  of  many  a  pcnsionless  old  soldier 
If  It  were  known,  are  made  pleasant  days  by  this  success-' 
fid  man.  "^ 

"Yes,  Ruben,  your  friend  Rill  is  right.  Take  out  of  any 
city  the  country  boy,  with  his  bright,  cheer,-  push  and 
ener^^.  and  that  city  will  soon  lose  its  position  among  its 

This  speecJi  of  the  Biographor  quite  nettled  the  smart 
boarder,  a  young  doctor,  a  city-bred  man.  who  wantcl  to 
know,  wuh  much  sarcasm  in  his  inquiry,  if  "our  late 
S;:;^'r  "'    "—''--    a   ^air    specimen    of    the 

understand  h,s  meanmg,  and  made  no  reply  to  his  rude- 

n  cut  that  mcdicnie  and  surgery  had  made,  and  like  mmv 

Just  after  his  "genus  ver<l"  speecli  he  .poke  alx.„t  a 
ne,v  cI,seovery  of  n,ed!cal  seienee.  an<I  told  „s  how  that 
by  n,eans  of  heat  and  steam  that  a  man  might  redt^^e  Ms 

Wf»10-Tlf  ^Ua        ,*J -r  .     .  ^  'CUULC    Ills 

Of    speakmg   of    such  a  thing  at  a 


weight. 


ji  lie     It.ra 


/if 


lave  since 

scarce  a 
.»llars,  fur 

1!!  many 
ntry  hoy, 
eiKTosity 
ire  being' 
r  Xorth- 


MV    FKn.:xi>   IJILL. 


39 


bnanlin^-honse.     X.,i,o<Iy  sc.n.e  I  to  appreciate  it  but  tlie 
laiitrlaily.  who  smiled  plcasnl-likc 

1  lhmi«ht  tha,  just  luTo  was  a  «u,„l  place  to  ret„n,  l,is 
rmleness,  so  I  sa„l :  -\Vn;  „,a.  is  „,„|,i„«.     |.;vc.rvl,.Klv 

..'"ays  knew  that  a  -...r  onihl  make  a  man   'iK^rer'' 

even  w.thom  ,loin^^  a  Uy  stean,."     Tlie  lan,lk-„lv  ,li,h,'t 
m,le    hut  the  rest  Hid,  and  I  feU  less  e.nharrassJd  al»,„t 

tlu-  doctor  sl.a,m,   whichever  after  he  used. .„N.    f 
medicinal  i)Urposi'S. 


1  soldier, 
success- 
It  of  any 
iisli  and 
nong-  its 

e  smart 

lilted  to 

)ur  late 

of   the 

did  not 
s  rude- 

Ivance- 
;  many 
appro- 

lx>ut  a 
>v  that 
ice  his 
r  at  a 


H 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


t€ 


'I  picked  him  up  easy  like  ami  threw  him  out  into  the 
road.     J  hey  guessed  I  zeas  'real'  after  that." 

One  morning  I  a.sko.1  the  yo,n,g  statesman,  to  whom  I 

ad    akcn  a  Jikms,  if  he  wonl<!  tell  me  how  I  could  find 

the  Lowery.     I  don't  know  why  the  question  sl,ould  have 

amused  Inm  so  mueh,  but  he  laughed  a  good  deal  before  he 

alone.       c^    ,,         ,,,    ,,,^  „,^  ^^.,^^.    ^^^^.^,^ 

we       down   m    the   afternoon.     It   was   not   at   all   l,ke 

the  e  """'Tm'  '""'''  "°'  ''"^■'^  ■'^^""•^''  "  P°^^'W«  that 
there  could  be  so  vast  a  difference  in  two  streets  of  the 
same  citv. 

If  I  had  bought  clothes  at  every  place  where  I  was  i„- 

v.te<l  „,  I  could  have  stocked    four   stores    back    hon,e 

ihe.v  not  only  „„ited  me  in,  but  at  some  of  the  stores  the 

vvd,ole   anu  y  can,e  out  and  insisted  on  taking  me  in  bodilv, 

and      thn.l., hey  felt  really  ofl^'ended  because  I  refused. 

sati.siied  with  mv  own  home  suit. 

where  they  had  more  strange  things  than  I  had  ever  heard 

of,  nmcl,  less  seen.     They  had  calves  with  more  heads 

,  than  they  could  possibly  use:  snakes  larger  than  anv  old 

toper     ever  dreamed  of;  monkeys  that  looked  eu'ou-h 

l.ke  Denn.s  O'Donahue  to  have  been  lu's  own  brothe;- 

women  four  times  as  large  as  old  Mrs.  Smithers  at  home^ 

men  who  were  so  thin  that  they  rattled  when  thev  walked.' 

I  asked  one  of  tbera  how  he  got  so  slender.     He'said  that 

40 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 

he  l,a<l  ahvays  boanled  since  he  came  to  Kcu-  York  In.t 
I  coul,  n  t  see  what  that  l,acl  to  do  will,  ,t-I  gnclsZ 
CO,,  ,I„  t  have  f„Ily  ,„„lerstocKl  n,v  ci„ostio„.       ' 

Ax  ,nseh  s  ton.ahauk ;  lu„  uha,  J  eat.kl  „ot  „„,lers,a,„l 
at  all  was  why  so  „,a,.y  of  the,,,  had  the  head  of  G„it  "au 
<lo„e  ,,p  .n  a  cohol.     I  sl,o„ld  have  thon^ht.  after  Ite": 
no    eed,  tat  ho  wo.,ld  have  been  saUstiod  to  1        "t 

that    d„s  ,s  my  head-the  only  j.en„M,e  one  in  town  " 
I  forgot  to  say  that  I  did  not  have  to  pav  a  cent  ,0  eet 

n  any  of  the  ,™,so„„,s   and  I  certai„ly'm„st  have  so" 
then,  all.     \\  hen  I  wonid  co,„e  „p  h,  f,-„„t  of  one  of  the,,, 
and  stop,  the  crow,!  that  followo.l  „,e  fro,,,  0,  e    o  t he 
o(l,or  ahvays  stopped,  too.     The  fellow  a,   the  door-I 
dK^    know  any  of  then,  fron,  A<Ia„,-wo.,ld  ahva  -^  av 

Kule,  top  nght  ,n :  I  heard  yon  was  co.ni,,-."-  Aifi 
had  to  do  was  to  walk  in.  The  crowd  that  was  alo.L 
however  had  to  pay.  One  or  two  of  the  f  Jlo  vs  w  fo 
wore  followtng  along  wanted  to  know  if  I  was  ■'r  ° 
That  was  the  qneorest  c„,estion  I  ever  had  p„t  to  „,e 

Of  course     an,  real."  I  answered,  indignantlv. 

A    one  of  these  m„se„n,s  they  had  a  regi.Iar  school 
ex  ,,l.,t,on_only  they  didn't   speak  real   pieces  or  laT 
me    d,alog„es_l,ke    we    had    at    Rohhin's    H.xhihi  ion 
They  just  snng  the  silliest  .songs  I  had  over  hoard  Tnd 

.i^e  th  :  3..  .J  „,  ,,rr„,,  /ivotS  harh^  r^  ■ 
:« ;  L.fror at  I""'"',"' •''  :t '-'' "'-'  "-^ 

',.  ,  /    -— Y'^  ^"  at  an.  and  wiiat  thcv  dul  wonr  „-.. 
as  tight  as  a  hunter's  buc 


cin 


suit  after  a  liard  ra 


Ml. 


42 


ill 


ii 


f[| 


MY  FRIEND  BILL. 


\Vhy,  I  j„st  I,a,J  to  turn  my  head  away  until  I  got  used 

tlKv  had.     i  hat  fellow  coukl  throw  down  every  one  who 
would  wrestle  with  hin,.     The  ntan  who  ran  the  «1  b^ 

haul  Ik  .  Laches  and  gcntlenien-J'rofessor  Throwum 
ot  ISew  York  city.     He  expected  the  chanipeen  of  Wee- 

J  ^n  tia  r  f  7"°°"'  '"'  ""=  "''^'^  ^'"^^  received  a  te. 
gram  hat  he  had  ni,sse<l  the  ferry  boat  and  that  he  cannot 
reach  here  n,  t,me.     We  are  very  sorrv,  but  rather  than 

0  d,sappon,t  you,  the  management  has  concluded  to  offe 
en  dollars  to  the  man  whon,  the  professor  cannot  tl^ro^v 
own  ,n  four  munnes.  and  to  make  it  fifteen  dollars   I 
he  man  can  throw  the  professor."    The  whole  house- 

an    .t  was  nearly  full-rose  up  to  cheer.     I  felt  my  blood 
bo'-     I,  the  champ.on  of  Highmont  and  vicinitv   I  iust 
he      on  to  the  bench  an<l  never  sai<l  a  word,  but  J 
that    ellow  who  ran  the  show  cante  out  again  an<l  said, 

Stan!  r  ■?'  ?""u"  "'  ""  ^■°"='"''^''  I  i"^'  ~"1''"' 
stand  ,t,  and  got  nght  up.     Thev  all  knew  me  somehow 

and^cned   out:     "Reuben,  go  up  and   get  y.rSZ' 

1  went-T  could  take  no  dare  like  that.     The  man  ui> 
here  turned  to  the  crowd  of  people  and  asked       'H  s 

this  boy  any  friends  here?" 
"Yes;  we  are  all  his  friends." 
"No,  I  don't  mean  that.     Has  he  any  relatives  to  look 

No  one?    Well      then  to  me.  ",ny  dear  young  man.  to 

^n^r^i-       "' '""'  ™"'    "'''  ■""  '"^'  "^''"'^^ 


MY  FRIEND  BILL. 

I  kneu-  that  he  was  o„ly  tryit,g  to  scare  n>e.  so  I  told 
lim         I  «-,ll  „ot  trouble  yot,  to  send  „,e  to  a„y  of  then, 
as  they  are  iioi  looking  for  me  to-dav  " 

At  that  the  crowd  stoo<l  right  up  ari.l  shook  hands  with 
tself,  and  saul :  ••Reuben,  you're  gan.e !"  All  this  while 
I  was  looking  at  the  Professor  to  see  how  large  he  was 
He  was  sn,a  ler  but  much  heavier  than  I.  I  run  to  length' 
People  used  to  call  nte  Abe-beeanse,  as  thev  said  I 
looked  so  much  like  Abe  Lincoln,  only  that  I  was  not  so 
good  looking  as  Abe. 

The  tnanager   began   again:     "Is   there  an   insurance 
agent  ,n  the  house'     If  so,  please  step  up  au,l  write  a 
pol  cy  for  our  brave  young  friend.     Xone  here?     Then 
Kuben,  yon  will  have  to  carry  vour  own  risk  " 

".\one  to  carry,"  I  told  hini,  and  the  crow.l  was  with 
nie.     When  be  called  ••Ready!"  I  never  saw  as  quick  a 
man  n,  n,y  be  as  that  Professor.     He  ba.I  hol.l  of  n,e 
and  before  I  knew  what  he  was  doing  he  ucarlv  had  n,e 
off  my  feet  •  hut  I  soon  got  tnyself  righted,  an<i  in  order 
tha    I  might,  at  least,  be  sure  of  the  ten  dollars,  I  did 
notlung  for  the  first  four  minutes,  except  to  ke^p  him 
from  throwmg  me.     The  man  with  the  watch  cheated  me 
out  of  one  mmute,  but  the  crowd  made  such  an  outcrv 
agamst  ,t  that  be  had  to  call  ••Time!"  and  the^-  made  bin^ 
pay  me  the  ntoney  on  the  spot.     I  wanted  to  ^top  at  that, 
b  t  the  crowd  wotdd  not  hear  to  it.     Thev  had  Ih^cu  so 
fnendly  toward  me  that  I  felt  to  quit  would  be  treating 
hem  unfairly.     So  I  told  the  manager  that,  "I  will  onlv 
take  the  other  five  dollars  to  please  mv  friends  "  ' 

to  nlnsTn  """•  -T-  l"""''  ""'  ''^  '^  Sood  deal  harder 

•P     ,?•"'' ^!°"'    'h'^t    ''-    had    used    before.     Again 
Ready !      This  time  I  was  w atching.  ^ 

During  the  f5ve  minutes  w-e  had  wrestle.l  I  had  caught 


44 


ii 


•i' 


MY  FRIEND  BILL. 


most  o  the  rrofessor's  trips,  and  fo„nd  that  he  did  not 
know  the  one  we  used  back  hotne.  We  had  not  be^,  t^ 
gether  n.uch  over  half  a  mi,„„e  when  I  used  the  '■grap!^ 

plaj.     I  caight  l„n,  so  qnick  that  he  could  not  gather 
hnnse  f,  and  threw  l,in,  so  hard  .l,at  I  was  really  sfar  d 
Would  you  believe  it_tho  croud  wanted  to  get  on  the 
platforn,  w.th  me!     They  were  standing  on  top  of    l! 
scats  and  trying  to  lift  the  very  roof  ^Wth  Oct  voic 

real,  downnght  enjoyment  for  the  croud,  if  one  were  to 
judge  hy  the  noise  they  made;  and  that  Robbin's  affair 
oo-the  one  great  event  from  which  all  Highn,ont  enter- 
■nments  have  dated  and  been  con,pared-qnitc  the  finest 
I.  ng    hat  ever  ba,,pened  in  all  those  parts.     Of  course, 
I  don  t  n,ean  to  say  that  this  Cowery  exhibition  was  a 
good-I  only  say  that  there  was  more  noise  and  appear- 
ance o    enjoyment,     \\-hen  the  n.an  gave  me  the  other 
five  dollars  he  said  that  if  I  would  come  and  "rassel"  every 
day  he  won  d  pay  me  fifty  dollars  a  week  and  one  "benefit" 
a  month.      'Aow,  while  that  seemed  a  fortune  to  me    I 
had  to  tell  h,m  that  I  had  not  come  to  New  York  to 
rassel,    Intt  to  find  my  friend  Bill.     The  crowd  wanted 

to  "IT  vT'  ^°""^ '°  "''  "''^^Pi'^"'."  a-Hl  if  I  wanted 
to  get  my  hfe  msured."  or  if  I  had  any  "relative"  to  look 
after  me.  The  man  did  not  take  nearlv  so  much  interest 
■n  all  th,s  as  he  did  when  he  was  doing  the  talking  I 
had  only  wrestled  to  learn  some  new  trips-I  learned  a 
number. 

I  was  going  along  quietly  about  five  o'clock— sort  o' 
between  m.tseums,  as  it  were-when  a  young  man  stepped 
"P  to  me  from  a  saloon  door  and  said :  "Sav,  young 
feller,  we  re  onto  yer.  Now  git  out."  I  told  him  that 
I  guessed  he  wasn't  onto  me,  and  that  if  he  w^as  he  had 


MY   I-'KIE.VD   BILL. 


45 


laughed.     He  got  very  angry,  a,Kl  without  the  least  provo 
on'    T  warned  r  1  ■■'"  '  ■"",  ""  ""'*  "''^  ^°-'  -"'  -alked 

he  ne,xt  nu,.set„n.     As  I  went  along,  after  [  had  tossed 

loners    say,     1  guess  he  is  real  " 

That  night  at  the  supper  table  I  told  all  about  my  ex- 
penences  of  the  afternoon,  and  they  were  greatly  L" 

A  very  thin-looking  young  man  at  the  end  of  the  table 
«o  had  not  spoken  before,  asked  in  a  very  gentJ,  cl  a^; 
yo.ee         I  beg  your  pardon,  my  dear  sir,  but  what  did 

understand  you  to  say  you  ha<l  earne.l  with  fit  and 
hree-quurters  n,inutes  of  actual  eiTort?"     I  tokl  him  tltat 
I  had  been  paid  fifteen  dollars. 

"And  pardon  me  further,"  said  be  ■  "„.l-,.,f  ,i.- 1 
.hey  had  offered  you  for  each  week" '  ■■°"  ''' 

work' twiee""^  '  ""'"V"  ''■''  '- '  ■""'  ™'>'  "f^^"  ""•""««' 
work  tw,ee  a  day,  and  something  thev  ealle.l  a  'benefit' 

once  a  n,ontb  if  I  would  stay  three  n,onths.''     He  Ikl  nc^t 

address  me  further,  but  I  heard  him  say  to  the  n,an    i  th,g 

besKle  h,m:     "I  fear  I  have  tnissed  my  calling."  ^ 

wal  knowrnTH"'"'''  '"'  ""  ""'''  ■""^"'^  "'■■"  '""  ""'e 
« as  known  of  th,s  young  man,  further  than  that  he  had 

gra  t,ated  a  few  „K>nths  before  at  one  of  the  great  e    lege 

meda  man.  He  took  all  the  prizes,  and  was  a  very 
,g  eat  favorite  at  the  college.  The  newspapers  all  ,a  d 
when  he  graduated  that  "His  future  is  asst'red." 

b„.,.i'  iT  •    ^a'^'  '''*=  istatesman,  "and  has 

boarded  here  ever  since.     For  three  months  now  he  c2 


•  t 

•  t  'i 


If! 


mi 


46 


MY   FKIEXD   BILL. 


-^"e  .strs'tlfLre  "^'-^'-'>-^-i  soul  .,. 
knows  what  he  (Idpq  K„f         1  .  ^     ^-      -^obofly 

-H  wee,  a!::,  t:iv:r.:::;:;j;™  -s^"  f^' 

so  sorry  for  i,i„,  that  I  could  Inr, M     ,  .         -''      '''^^ 

my  eyes  when  I  heard  .1,  f    1  ,  '"T,  '"  ,'<^^-  f^^"" 

supper  next  day  I  „,et  Inn,  in  tin  "  '"  '"""^  '° 

that  «hen  I  made  anv  „  ,    '"'""■''•'■'  ■•""'  '°IJ  '"m 

of  giving  it  Ztir?'  '■'"  ''''  "'="  I  ''-'  -  h^bit 
ancfaskeV  i,  :     I, fL"""  "'"  '°'^'^'  "'>■  ^^--^^ 

"ollars  I  had  n,  d     irfi    '    ^  ."hrS"  '™'  ""  '''^^" 
I  said  that  if  he  refused  I  wo  Id  """■"''  ""■""'^^• 

of_fin.lin,  son.  one  elsft o  ,r It  to^  "'"  '°  '"^  '^°"^'^ 
iVly  clear  friend    T  rin,-.^f  +  i      .^  - 

^^-'  I  '-e  „oti,i„,  to  ~  out  t:,,r e%:;  it ''' 

I  cannot  accept  it."  ^'^^iidn^^e  tor  it— no, 

"J'll  tell  you  liow  we  can  fix  that      T  u-;il  i 
you,  and  take  vour  note    nnd  vn,  ''"  ^^  *^ 

can."  He  ^v^  n.e  1  '  n^  Xh"  T  '  "'f"  >'^" 
-s  not  looLin,,  and  threw  il  i:  the  fire"  ^he  S:V" 
"lan  sa  d  afterwnrd-     "Ti  ^ue  nre.      i  he  States- 

it.'  as  he  1,      ;  ■       e  land    d  '        '''  """'  '"^'^  '^'"^X 

• ,  ^  landlady  some  monev"  h^^^■  t 

said  a  word.  '  '"^ne}  ,    but  1  never 


i^ 


CHAPTER  IX. 

•"■f  ".at  his  experience  i,,'  Zl,  ''"  "'""'••"  "•^"." 

^cs,"  said  he    "aivl  ,t 
;'.«"<=n^'ina  Ve.,::]  ifr^^P,"  -'"  >-  wiM  find 

-^•per.ence  i„  ,,elp,„^„  p.^" '  '^"'  ''^  ^d  ,ne  so,„e  of  hi! 

He  saij  tliat  lie  hiH  i'„   '      , 
^-d  thin,,"  and  .hat   h'rind  ""  f/;^^''  ""  "^  -, 

I  tl'inl<."  said  i,e   ho^L  '^  ''"^''  '"'"  a'onff." 

;o  excuse  l.n.se,f  fo  "f  ";;:a' T  '"°"^"''  •°  ">"  a  sto., 
''eon  ,n  ahout  188-.     j  ,,' ,   '^^"'essness,   "it  „„,„   ,,    .^ 

At  the  same  place  whe.e  „  '  I?"  ^"'-'v-fourt,,  street 
"'y  own  home  in  ,he  Wesfl^i"'"' ?/°""^'"»n  f^on, 
"!«!.cn,e.  Three  davs  heforelf  '  "'  ''''  ^'""VnjT 
'""■^  Nobody  knew  vvhernl"'^  '"  ^^^''"^'e  I  missef 
°"*red  no,  a  htt.e.  as  v  fe^'  he  r''  '"'  ^''  '''  "'  "^ 
;a.'  not  a  refrular  drinker  buv  '  ''^'  '^''"'-     Dan 

<iV  or  two  'off.'    The  nVh,  llr      "'''  °<^^a-^'onaMv  take  a 
senger  hrou^i,.  _      "^."'f  "^forefiTaduaHna-d- 

^  '  '-  a  ..adl,-.,.i,ed  envelop.  V:;;e;eTMt" 

47 


il 


48 


'1 


f  H 


If 


MY   FRIExND   BILL. 


Ilii 


and  found  wliat  was  meant  to  be  a  letter.     By  great  and 
persevenng  effort  I  made  out  the  following 

bhay-fer  shee  good  name-your  liome-cum  an'  git 

rn^Knv  dont  cum  en  git  me-an  fix-me-up-we  are 

ost-termorrer  s  zee  day-'few  ony  cum  an  git  me  I'le 

bles  you  til  dyin  day-an  pay  you  back-<.ver  cent-hav 

spent  all  my  mony-a'nt  got  a  d cent-left.    Am  at 

Odern.ans-t,p  stairs-back  rum-god  sake-cum  an  git 
me— an — cum  quik '  ^ 

••There  was  „o  „anie  to  it,  but  I  knw  it  was  from 

h  " '•  ,  '"•;■'  ^'';"''  '^  >'^"  ''^J  =^^"  him  you  would  l,ave 
st  t  '""^ '"  7^  7^  '°  "'e  extent  of  $40.     He  was  a 
s..  It.     I  had  to  take  l„ni,  and  get  him  clothes  from  top 
to   oe-fixed  h,m  all  up,  and  he  graduate<l  with  honors, 
as  he  w'as  a  brdhant  n.au,  handsome  as  a  Greek  god,  and 
a  gen,al  good  fellow  wl,en  himself.     He  got  a  positi;>,a  at 
once  m  the  greatest  asylum  up  the  State." 
"Did  he  pay  you  back  the  .$40?"  I  asked 
'•No"  said  he.     "I  was  then  rich,  and  did  not  need  it. 
Years  later  I  met  with  reverses,  and  wrote  to  Dan  for 
he  money-he  having  prospered.     I  explained  my  situa- 
.on,  and  that  I  was  actually  in  sore  need  of  the  monev 
Imagine  my  feelings  when  he  wrote  back :     'Your  claim 
IS  outlawed  by  the  statute  of  limitation  ' 

"All  I  could  reply  to  that  was:     'Dan,  a  debt  of  honor 
has  no  hm,tat.on ;'  but  he  never  wrote  to  me  again.     The 
bread    has  never  'returned,'  though   'manv  days'  have 
passed,  and  some  of  them  very  hungry  ones' " 

I  ha<l  nothing  to  say,  but  wondere.l'if  there  were  manv 
like  Dan  I  asked  him  if  his  experience  as  Good  Sa- 
maritan had  alwavs  been  ill. 

"Few  exceptions.  Why.  I  once  saved  a  young  man's 
Me  who  ,yas  sick  unto  death  in  a  l>oarding  house.  I  took 
him  to  a  hospital,  and  had  him  olaced  in  ,  pri,...*-  — „ 


y  great  and 


*^1V  l-KiKND  I3JLL. 
and  paid  libcrallv  that  I, .      •   .     .  "^^ 

""  >as  not  onl>-  not  repaid     e  ^  '         ''  "^'  ^''""^i^"^'^' 

'""'^'•-If  and  n,a<lc  it  pes   M,  """■■^■•>n.ls  of  dollars 

n.orc  throng.,,  „„,„,  ^n.TLrT'''  ^"''  "'™'^'^"'l» 
"'^'  world  is  bad,  «i,l,  o'i'  f''  '  ■■""  ""■"'^-  "'"f  •->" 
an  exception  in  n,v  v  ri    1  T,      '"  "'  '  "■''"  '^■"  -"  '>i 

">e  •enn,  one  of  the  hov      v    ,         '  """■  "'^'  ""''''"^  <>f 
"■'"  '>ave  to  give   nn~l  ^"™'  '"^'  "'^H.  «ai<l:    'I 

ro«ngand  ui,t  a  rich  fat  L  T"'", ,"  ="'  '^""^■•'     •'-"? 
■■'  :"-•"  to  reach  the  end  of  ;„;:','!;':,::'  '''''"-''''''  "■•»' 

^^•'■"' "-vere'so::/: ::,,:•;:;   ;;™--.K.  world.- 

^'y  "^'^'  'lay  we  fonnd  that  i ,-,?; ,''""'  "'™"^.  and 
.•stencil  •ontfit,'     I  ,ool-  ,.  '   """'''  '"'•'■•  a  complete 

-"  tiu,s  saved     t^f  tT^r""'"^-  •'-""I  "n-.'-lf' 

'-"  at  once  sent  au"        r      rf:;;:^,"'^^^'"  ""■^■"  ^ 
^^ys  wJio.  for  'acKvrf.'  ,•  ^^^-      ^^  ^•»"'t^     The 

•'■0  scheme,  a^  t:::^^:^^: .  "••"■, ';' '■> .-..: 

maknig  monev.     f fe  went  t  rl  ';,  '■""'  '"•'  "■''s  sfx>n 

"i.h  honor,  as  he  was  a     e    "f  m""''"^"  ■^"•'  '■'^•■"'"al-l 
'■■aveled  in  Enrop    to  stndv  hs"  r"''-'  ""^  ^'"''->'-     He 
'■".^'"-.^  wav-  n-ith  hi    pe^  H     "'"'"■''l'™'^'  systems,,  pay- 
fo"."l  no  trouble  i     t     '  sal    oTT''   r""''""  """-•-"<' 
^'>  l"-s  retnrn  to  Ante  ica  t  I     '"    ^T'^''"  ='rt'^'«-' 
^""'Ponnd  interest.     To  hV  leT      "''/'''  "'"  '°'''"'  ^"''h 
"f  f>>i^  conntr,,  and  I  an,  p n .nd  ^Z:''  ""  "''^  ^-"— 

-;9s- s:^;;rz:t's:-s^:  "^  -  - 

^"  3t  a  bit  ot  romance.  '  "^  ^"^  '^^'^'"y  has 


a 


1       : 


SO 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


"Like  yourself,  I  was  reared  in  the  country.  Several 
miles  from  the  home  place  my  father  owned  another  farm, 
to  which  we  used  often  to  go.  We  had  to  pass  through 
a  lane  oli"  from  the  main  road  to  reach  it.  Beside  this 
lane  stood  a  log  cabin.  1  used  often  to  watch  a  large 
family  of  children  playing  about  it.  Among  ihe  number 
was  one  in  particular  -a  little  girl.  wShe  was  not  like  the 
rest.  She  cared  not  for  dolls  and  toys  which  other  chil- 
dren loved.  She  was  ever  drawing  pictures,  and,  not 
knowing  anything  about  paints,  she  used  as  colors  the 
juices  of  berries  and  flowers. 

"Her  work,  for  a  child,  was  so  remarkable  that  I  took 
an  interest  in  her.  I  found  for  her,  at  a  near-by  town, 
a  drawing  teacher.  Her  progress  was  so  rapid  that  she 
soon  had  learned  all  that  this  teacher  could  impart.  She 
had  learned,  however,  much  of  the  principle  of  drawing, 
and  worked  on  at  her  home.  When  she  grew  older  I  sent 
her  away  to  a  great  city,  where  she  became  an  artist  of 
note.  She  painted  for  me  many  pictures  'in  part  pay- 
ment,' as  she  used  often  to  say.  Those  pictures  I  shall 
always  keep. 

"I  told  you  there  was  a  romance  connected  with  this 
story.  There  was  to  be  in  the  great  city  an  exhibition  of 
paintings.  Artists  from  many  States  brought  their  pro- 
ductions. Aly  protege  was  of  the  number.  Her  work 
attracted  much  attention.  During  the  thronged  hours  it 
was  hard  to  get  near  her  masterpiece.  The  subject  of 
this  was  a  simple  one.  but,  oh,  how  she  had  brought  out 
the  detail!  As  you  looked  at  it,  you  could  almost  see 
the  children  move  who  were  playing  about  a  HttJe  log 
cabin  that  stood  beside  a  narrow  lane.  At  the  gate  leaned 
a  young  man  watching  the  children  at  play.  Yes,  Ruben, 
the  face  of  the  young  man  might  have  been  taken  for 
mine  w-hen  I  was  younger.     Rut  to  the  romance.     A  verv 


.  Several 
thcr  farm, 
s  through 
leside  this 
h  a  large 
le  miiiiber 
>t  Hke  the 
)thcr  cliil- 
and,  not 
'olors  the 

lat  I  took 
-by  town, 
[  that  she 
art.     She 

drawing; 
Jer  I  sent 

artist  of 
)art  pay- 
;s  I  shall 


MY  FRIEND   BILL. 

;:::?s;*;rr:c:;;;7r '•■?'■■-''« 

artjst^and     .V.,,.  .y  protegf  i^Iw  ,  i^Ji;^^'^^  ^"^  ''^ 
palatial  home  "  ^''''^'  '"  '^''  '''  ^^^llery  of  her 

to  the  poor  young  man  ^'""  '"^  ^^^^^"  ^'-"''^'•^ 


I 


with  this 
i  bit  ion  of 
heir  pro- 
[er  work 
hours  it 
ibject  of 
ught  out 
nost  see 
little  log 
to  leaned 
,  Ruben, 
iken  for 
A  very 


!   M 


I  I 


CHAPTER  X. 

''Peed  a  hungry  man  and  lie  zvill  feel  grateful  to  you  till 
his  appetite  is  gone." 

The  bald-headed  broker  was  a  queer  combination.  He 
was  a  success  and  yet  a  failure.  If  the  enterprise  de- 
pejided  on  his  own  effort,  he  'Succeeded,  as  nothing  could 
daunt  him  or  turn  him  aside  from  the  object  in  view,  but 
the  moment  he  had  to  depend  upon  another  the  enterprise 
would  fail — seemingly  no  reason  for  it,  but  it  would  fail. 
There  was  nothing  too  large  for  him  to  attempt,  and  he 
was  never  caught  unaware.  He  might  go  to  a  capitalist 
with  a  proposition  requiring  a  few  thousand  dollars,  and 
when  told  that,  "We  do  not  entertain  anything  so  small 
as  that,"  he  would  at  once  offer  one  requiring  millions  and 
show  itc  feasibility.  I  used  often  to  think  he  had  little 
to  encourage  him,  yet  he  was  always  cheerful.  "Look  on 
the  bright  side,"  he  would  say:  "and,  like  the  late  'Brick' 
Pomeroy,  if  you  have  no  bright  side,  take  a  white-wash 
brush  and  paint  one.  Many  times  I  have  run  out  of  paint 
or  worn  the  brush  to  the  very  wood,  and  had  nothing  but 
the  black  wall  to  look  upon,  and  yet  before  it  got  all  dark 
a  little  ray  of  sunshine  would  come,  and  I  was  again 
happy," 

One  of  his  enterprises  has  since  succeeded,  and  he  is 
once  more  very  rich,  but  he  is  the  same  genial  man,  with 
a  kind  word  for  the  most  lowly.  Some  of  the  boys  say 
that  he  is  again  "a  real  good  thing,"  but  they  also  say 

52 


was  again 


MV   FRIEND  BILL 

that  they  can't  "push  hhn  alonf;"  like  ,h,v  n  ,,1 ,        „;. 
he  regained  his  fortune  he  u.J       '"'•\"-^"'  '"■     When 

laying:  Dack,  sonielimes  tcn-fol,l    f,,r  f..,.  .      i 
'•'■n  wlien  he  was  Mown  ■'     [1..  ,'n  ''"'"" 

ever,  that  he  soon  Rot  a  onn,       "f,"  °"'"  """•'•  '"^^- 
a  very  hltie  n.onev  '  '"''  "'''  "  '""'  '^"«'  I"''" 

!■■-  of  >.avin,\i:::ir  „■  r7\  ::,:rr'":- ' """  '^^ 

jot  clown  the  short   n„n-  .  " '"'  '■'"'  '«  '™e 

versa  ,„„    ,  ,s   f",  '  "^r"  '""""••-  "'■"'  -I'^^'l-  l>is  con- 
fitte,,  i:;      ,  i  J""iJ ''.'''  f'"'  "f  philosophy  always 

fun  ex,.riencf  t^  e    ^    /    ^"'",';'''  ''  '^"•"  '"'^  -" 

fi"<>.-.nu>n^n,vn,e„:::a:;:.-'  "■  """'""""-^  "•'"'-•"  I 

York  citv- 1  Ir    ^    "f';f '^"^'^  ""  ^■-"•"'^  '«  New 
'Mil^^  4^^      r  •      ,  v^^nuKn  ot  .\i7UTica. 

"se t    n    Lirr ;  T'l  rT'"^""-  "^  '-'-  will- 
yonr  adversitv.  "  "''  '"'"'"  '''"  f-'T'-'  von  in 

yoiMn^h^TrCr?'  '^"^  '"  ''°^^^*>-  "■'•"  "'>^  -'-'- 
envf  ir:hrp:!r"Tnd"  •■  ■■;  "'T  ^■^•^'""'>-  "'  "-  -"  -'I 

all'Hi"  '""""■  ^  """—'he  lender  will  own  yon  for 

maTre'r^eT:-;;;!'"'  ^'t  ^°*  ^  "^"-^  ^^  ^-^-^  ^ou 

evenin,  at  :;S  ^J':..^*:;!'''^  '"  f""  '"-e^'  of  an 
'ai-'ofaprcsperonsman    '        ""•  """'"^  ""  '"'  "^<^ 


54 


MY   FRIEND  BILL. 


I '.      a 


"It  is  not  the  coat  that  makes  the  man.     Many  a  large, 
iiashy  tie  covers  a  torn  bosom. 

"Prove  all  you  hear.     The  most  valuable  bits  of  infor- 
mation are  often  about  things  that  never  happened. 

"Lend  a  dollar  this  week,  and  the  borrower  will  be 
angry  at  you  if  you  do  not  lend  him  two  next. 

"Feed  a  hungry  man,  and  he  will  feel  grateful  to  you 
until  his  appetite  is  gone. 

"What  you  learn,  learn  thoroughly.     Half  knowledge 
often  marks  the  ignorant  person. 

"Never  accept  a  free  ticket  from  an  actor.     The  sup- 
pers he  will  'play'  you  for  it  would  pay  for  a  box." 

Oh,  how  well  I  could  appreciate  this  last  "gem !"  The 
remembrance  of  the  ticket  that  the  young  actor  ( ?)  had 
once  given  me  came  vividly  up  before  me.  I  thought  of 
the  manv  suppers  I  had  given  him  since  for  that  one 
ticket,  and  yet  when  I  think  of  how  I  did  enjoy  that  play 
— the  very  first  I  had  ever  seen— I  can't  feel  that  I  paid 
too  much  for  it.  It  was  a  new  life  to  me,  that  play — it 
was  so  real.  The  only  thing  that  marred  the  pleasure  of 
the  play  was  that  "actor."  He  had  gone  with  me,  i.s  he 
said,  to  explain  it,  but  I  soon  found  that  his  explanation 
only  spoiled  it  for  me.  I  might  be  in  the  very  middle 
of  a  good  cry  at  the  misfortunes  of  some  person  on  the 
stage,  when  he  would  try  to  affect  an  entrance  in  my  side 
by  means  of  a  very  sharp  elbow,  and  then  go  on  to  tell 
me  how  much  better  he  could  have  played  the  part — "far 
better  than  that  'gilly'  on  the  stage!"  To  him  all  the 
actors  were  a  "set  of  gillies,  anyhow."  The  only  gratifi- 
cation I  ever  got  out  of  the  matter  was  to  know  that  the 
nearest  he  ever  came  to  doing  anything  on  the  stage  was 
that  he  finally  got  a  position  as  scene  shifter  in  an  "East 
Side"  theatre. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

'Ih  a  s,mU;  ,/  j.,.,,  ,„,.  ,/,./.•,■„,/,„■,/  /„  ..car  -.■rinklcs." 

.It  ^'^  ^"'^■"'«l  «-itl>  no  one,  and  seldom 

siu.ic<l  to  be  happy  only  uhon  let  alone.     Ife  appeared  to 

Jace  «as  tl  at  of  a  man  of  thirty  vears  or  nnder      Even 

tI  '    ^'"^  ™'-''<='^'  of  to-dar." 

„,  „     .""^ ,","''  ""-""'-"'-^  '°-''='>''"  ^«W'  ''<>•     "There  are  none 
of  the  'old  fa„,ili,V  of  New  York-  left.     All  now  arH 
the    nauvoo  reech.'     When   I   uns   i„   soeietv^w^,  a 
marked  emphasis  on  the  -f-^Seeon,!  avenne  wa      he 
ashtona  1, le  ce„tre-the  frreat  pron,enade.     Of  an  even  n^ 
o.  wonld  see  the  .p:en,len,en  and  ladies  ont  walkim      hf 
ad,es  w,th  their  hair  strea.m-,,^  do„n  their  ha  k,    "e';'rit 
Wack  mantillas  over  their  heids      Tl,„         .>  ^ 

thonrfit  of  ,-nni  ^  Kcntlemen  never 

MO  iRht  of  callniff,  .save  n.  a  oarria-e.     ff   «    irentleman 
ook  a  ,ady  to  the  theatre  he  ahvays  fnrnished  th    fl       r 

hen.     Money  |,a,l  notlnng  to  do  with  position.     No  there 
"  "°  society  to-day.     I  never  ,.0  o„t\n.-  mrr-      T  • 
not  gone  out  for  years.     I  feel  all  alone.'" 

55 


Ill  i 


56 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


Xo  one  cared  whether  he  came  or  stayed 


He  was. 
away. 

I  could  not  help  asking:     "Mr.  Knickerbocker,  where 
does  what  you  call  Society  begin?     How  many  genera- 
tions does  it  take  to  make  a  gentleman  or  a  lady  ?     The 
sending  of  flowers  and  the  buying  of  the  lady's  gloves  is 
custom.     If  custom  changed,  it  would  then  be  improper. 
As  well  say  that,  as  the  Bowery  was  then  the  great  prome- 
nade, it  should  be  so  to-day.     By  your  view  of  Society, 
the  man  who,  without  any  assistance,  works  himself  up 
from  a  lowly,  but  respectable  origin,  and  gains  riches,  and 
by  study  and  observation  acquires  all  the  accomplishments 
which  the  best  people  in  the  land  say  are  the  correct  cus- 
toms to  observe,  is  not  a  gentleman  because  he  hasn't 
'family'— because  his  father  before  him  had  not  done  the 
same  things."     I  had  talked  on  at  length  because  he  did 
not  deign  to  reply  to  any  of  my  questions  or  comments. 
He  simply  looked  at  me  as  beneath  his  notice.     This  made 
me  a  little  angry.     I  tried  to  be  sarcastic.     I  said :     "I 
once  knew  of  a  father  who  drove  his  own  'four-in-hand' 
to  a  carriage,  lived  in  his  own  palace,  and  led  the  'world 
of  fashion.'     His  son  after  him  drove  'two-in-hand'  to 
a  truck ;  and,  I  suppose  simply  because  the  truck  belonged 
to  some  one  else,  he  was  known  and  treated  as  a  'hired 
hand.'     His  'old  family  tree'  cut  no  figure  whatever.    Yes, 
Mr.  Knickerbocker,  I  guess  that  you  ..re  right— there  is 
no  Society  to-day,  if  a  man  may  be  called  a  gentleman 
solely  because  his  father  before  him  was  one.     That  which 
has  .aken  the  place  of  'Society'  demands  that  the  persoi. 
must  have  more  than  mere  'family'  to  warrant  a  place 
among  the  best  people— call  the  'best'  whatever  you  will." 
Mr.  Knickerbocker,  at  that,  replied  in  the  same  vein. 
His  first  question  was  meant  to  be  crushing — short  and 
conHti.c.ive.    even    scornful.     "What  do  you  know  about 


MY   FRIEXD   BILL. 


57 


o"  Vst  a  "^a  ,  ^'^■""?""->-.  whose  k„owIe<lge 
store'  of  1  ;tcf  :i'i  "^  ''°"'"'  -  "-  'corner  grocery 
burden  ofZ^:^^^'^^^''^  whore  .he  greal 

plant  in  ther  In'll  fichl  l„\l    '  .■    ^^"'''""  S"'"'   '^''- 

•'•::^";s.Mih:^::;:^-!:-;:i:-;;o-^ye,er  heard 

1  nat  IS  correct"  "  smM  T      "r  i 

cnston,s  of  'the  best       If,  .      "T-    '''^  '""'^  =''«"'  "><= 

l.as  told  me.     BiM   '""  f  '  "f""^'  "^'^^■"  "■'•'■"  ''"' 
^1  *>^*-^  "^^^t  sometimes      TTf»  ^ivc  i, . 

of  L  ve  ,.  ve^v  ,d";:  7'  '"T  "'^'  "^  "">="  -'  -^ 
far  back  tlut  t  e  Z  reco  dl'  "'"  '"''  ^'"-"^  """^"  » 
spent  an  evenine  It    hU,         "'"■',  ^''"'  '°  ^'^^^y-     "^ 

Jian.^  on  for  manv  vears "  '  ''""^-'   "'''^>' 

rather  than  to  e.ch.de  hin.elfrnf^b^tr:  I  fl:; 
as  he  had  once  known  it.     r  remarked  to  the  Repor  er 

^n  ;:fThe  :;r  ^?v'-^  '^^^  "■^--  -^  --^-e 

tl.e  dav  I  wa    ove    '   u'! 'k  r-'--""^-  ""  «-  Bowery 

Tlie  Pe^rter  -,=      1  '  ''  ""'"'^  ""  "'antillas.'  " 

told  1     T  "'  '"'  *''"  <■"'""•  "f  "''■'•'■  I'air     When  J 

■old  hmi.  hemerev  snid-    "v„  ^t,  ,,  "nen  i 

-V  of  the  old  famiiSthe'li  ':!!;:•''''_"?!  "r  '!- 

-  thon,h  the  color  had  anything';: rXlTl-blul 


58 


MY  FRIExX'D   BILL. 


did  not  reply.  I  just  sat  and  thought,  and  thought.  As 
1  looked  at  Mr.  Knickerbocker  1  moralized  on  things.  If 
you  don't  care  for  the  world  and  want  to  withdraw  from 
it,  do  so — it  will  not  miss  you,  it  will  not  seek  out  your 
hiding-place.  If  you  are  not  pleased  with  the  changing 
customs,  don't  protest — they  will  change  anyhow\  Don't 
frown;  it  wrinkles  the  face.  Better  wrinkle  it  with  a 
smile,  if  you  are  determin(xl  to  wear  wrinkles. 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  social  controversy  with  ]Mr. 
Knickerbocker,  and  whcii  I  had  thought  the  subject  at  an 
end,  the  man  from  "Limnon"  adjusted  his  one-eyed  spec- 
tacles and  began  on  his  "Impressions  of  America."  Said 
he :  "You  have  very  queer  social  customs  in  this  country. 
There  is  no  standard.  The  lowest  strata  of  society  in  this 
generation  may  be  the  leaders  of  the  next.  The  mediocre 
of  the  city,  if  they  fail  of  recognition,  only  need  to  go 
into  some  of  your  suburban  towns,  and  by  pure  assurance 
and  a  little  money,  rule  the  social  'sets'  of  the  place. 
They  may  be  the  veriest  snobs,  but  your  patient  people 
submit  most  graciously,  and  seem  happy  to  receive  from 
them  a  bow  of  recognition. 

"It  has  often  been  a  source  of  amusement  to  me  to 
watch  these  'snobs'  trying  to  do  *thc  proper  thing.' 

"In  dear  old  England  it  is  not  so.  Everybody  there 
knows  his  place  and  is  hisppy.  There  is  not  that  heart- 
burning which  you  see  here,  where  people  are  continually 
trying  to  reach  a  social  position,  for  which  they  will 
sacrifice  everything  else  to  attain,  and  when  they  have 
attained  it  they  are  not  content,  for  many  of  them  know 
that  they  are  still  oniy  mediocre. 

"See  how  proud  the  highest  of  your  peopte  become 
when  our  real  society  in  England  gives  them  a  little  recog- 
nition ;  and  when  our  Queen  consents  to  have  them  pre- 
sented to  her  it  is  an  event  worthy  a  cablegram. 


MV   FRIEND  BILL. 


59 


"The  recipient  of  that  recognition  becomes  thereafter 
a  pe^on  a  htfe  hit  higher  than  the  rest  of  her  ^oti; 

"No,    n,y    friends,    America   has   no   social   standard 
Even  your  'smart  set,'  fron,  whom  'the  correct  "tnt 

another  c.ty,  to  know  what  is  correct.     And  if,  perchance 

z:Lr  r'rrr^'-^^  -"^^  ^' "--  n;ay  he :  „"' 

lancy,  these  people,  whose  one  aim  in  life  is  social    will 
come  and  go  at  her  bidding,  as  though  she  wer^a  ;o:ia! 

n,/,7\'!r"  '°  ^"'''"  '""'■  ''"'  ""^  '^tatesn,an  gave 
me  a  look  that  sa,d,  "Don't  say  a  word!"    He  afterward 

°lTco'd\""  ^"^'"""'^"  "'^^  "^'"^  '"="  ^^^ 
Scnljed  conditions  very  true  to  life. 

Then  I  set  to  wondering  how  long  it  would  be  till  we 

vvou  d  have  a  standard  purely  American,  and  not  how    o 

he  socal  customs  of  any  land  but  our  own-wondering! 

be  r  loT  1      H     T"'  ""  ''''  "''^"  '""^^  "'^'O"-  -0"W 


* 


* 


***** 

The  "impressions"  of  this  Englishman  were,  to  say  the 

h/  ■  fr' '°  t'"'''  "-^  '  •"""^^■-  -■''"-'«  i"  America 
He  as^ced  me  one  day  what  State  I  had  con,e  from.     I  told 
nim  Pennsylvania. 

"Oh!  I  see;  away  out  on  the  frontier!"     The  States 
tnan  must  have  been  rather  personal  when  he  rema'rked 

Lore  r   ';  "'  ":.'"*      ""■=  ^■"''«'=»  f^°"'  yo"^  clothes 
more  than   from   h,s  knowledge  of  yo,:,   g^^raphy,   I 

'Yes."  said  T  fn  th^  Jt^rrVcU^. • 

to  the  Statesman. '■"^''■''^"'•'■■'  ?->■'"&  "^  -atention 


6o 


V  ' 


I 

I 

I 


il 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


"Is  the  Indian  very  bad  out  there?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  he  certainly  is !  The  worst,  in  fact,  that  I  have 
ever  seen!"  said  I,  having  in  mind  the  one  "Toppy" 
Troupe  had  cut  out  of  a  block  of  wood  for  1ms  cigar  store. 

This  Briton  believed  everything  he  heard. 

One  dav  the  subject  of  pensions  lo  our  sol'iu;rs  came 
up,  V/hen  he  remarked  : 

"I  think  your  Government  very  liberal  with  its  pen- 
sions. A  man  told  wq.  the  ether  day  al>out  a  soldier 
in  one  of  your  wars  who  got  scares  into  a  fit  when  he 
was  about  to  go  into  batde,  and  that  he  had  been  drawing 
a  pension  on  that  one  fit  ever  Fsnce!" 

Oh,  but  this  man  from  "Lunrion"  was  credulous ! 


CHAPTER  XII. 

"It  isn't  olu'ays  the  ymgist  that  l,vcs  the  lan.ist  " 

"Ann  Street,  the  dumping  ground  for  genius." 

cliaraTrs  TV'"'  "'""'"  """^'^  ''^^<=  1""^  -  odd 
asked  old  Mrs'"r  T'"'^^-  °"^  ^^^  ^'  '^e  table  I 
called  ^IL  L  r>  ""'  °^  "'^  *^'*^^-«.  as  they 
word      "M~  ?'^™^f  '"'"'''^  '"  >"= '«°  old  for  thai 

Ittle  W  u  f-'''"''^''  "■'""  '^^^  ''^<=0"><=  of  that  pretty 
intle  black-eyed  g,rl  who  t.sed  to  help  you  at  the'wa^ 

she 'is,'-   '^""'  '"  ""'"'''    '''"'  ''^^"^   Anny!     Ifs  ded 

yoLT^Vr''"'"'  ^"'  ^°'^^-'  ^°^  ^"-  was  a  very  bright 
;;Why.  Mrs.  Crowley,  Ar,na  was  so  young!" 

i  hru  far  ye,  Mister  Rubing,  thru  far  ve      Qi,„ 
vtinc-  hilt  it  ;<,n'(  ^11  ,  y*^-     ''"'^  was 

ist"  ;„d  ,,V        l^r^"  '^'  ^'""^'''  '^^'  'i^«  ""^  'anR- 
he;  apron  ""  """^  °"  ^^'"^  *'">  "«=  ™™er  of   < 

nhl't  S""  °'f  ''''?;  ''■'"^  "'  ""<=  ^^y--  "Mister  Rubing 
Ah,  me!  an'  it's  a  buke  ye  are  wroitin'!    Ah,  Mister 

6l 


62 


MY  FRIEND  BILL. 


Rubing!  an'  it  is  shurely  a  nioity  foine  buke — a  virry 
butiful  buke,  indade!" 

"What!     Have  you  been  reading  my  manuscript?" 

"Radin'  iz  it  ye  say?  Oi  rade?  Ah,  Mister  Rubing! 
nary  a  single  bit  can  Oi  rade.  It's  the  wroitin'— the 
vvroitin',  Oi  mane.     It  is  so  butiful!" 

I  could  not  help  wishing  that  certain  of  my  friends 
had  heard  that  compliment. 

The  man  whose  sole  excellence  lies  in  being  able  to 
tell  well  about  what  others  can  do  well  was  also  a  boarder 
at  our  house.  He  used  to  tell  us  about  how  this  or  that 
actor  could  act;  how  well  this  singer  could  sing;  what  a 
wonderful  orator  was  Mr.  X.,  or  what  this  or  that  great 
personage  could  do,  better  than  anybody  else.  He  used 
to  make  the  rest  of  us  feel  most  insignificant  by  the  self- 
important  manner  in  which  he  would  speak  of  the  accom- 
plishments of  others.  I  thought  at  the  time  that  he  was 
a  unique  character,  but  have  long  since  learned  that  he 
is  a  most  numerous  personage.  Every  large  boarding- 
house  has  him  in  full  size,  and,  no  doubt,  will  have  him 
to  the  end  of  time,  as  one  of  the  ills  of  this  world — and 
possibly,  too,  in  the  next,  where  he  will  know  some  "harp- 
er" who  can  "out-harp  any  harper  you  ever  knew." 

I  have  long  since  learned  this :  It  is  far  better  to  be 
capable  of  doing  even  one  little  thing  well  than  to  be 
able  to  tell  well  the  great  things  that  other  people  can  do. 

What  I  noticed  as  remarkable  at  my  boarding  place 
was  the  diversity  of  the  callings  of  the  boarders.  This 
limited  the  subjects  for  conversation  only  to  the  number 
at  the  table. 

There  was  the  inventor  and  the  author.  The  inventor 
had  just  been  granted  a  patent  on  a  small  article,  which 
was  sure  to  bring  him  in  a  vast  fortune.  He  often  told 
what  he  would  do  for  us  when  his  "article"  got  to  selling. 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


63 


VMi>,    said  lie  111  Ins  invciuur'semhiismsm   -th,.    • 
untold  fortune  in  it      I'Hft      j^-'^'^u^iasm,    tliere  is  an 

arc,  in  the  first  place,  the  States  of  the  Union      T r. .! 
a>mes  t  e  a>nnties  with  their  townships^.';:;;  J  ^ 

tH:^sna;s:::;^Ti;:n^,i:;: 

townships.     1  will  cst-.l,lil  1,  n     "^^""-^^f---  '-•"""'y  ••'■"1 
in  the  East  and      "      '^  '  J..«:-""-f.-.c.urin,.  ,„..„. 

ll>e   anthor    was    little    less    entlmsiaslic      Hi,    \^,u 
vouhl  cost  l,„t  twenty-five  cents.  an,l  sell   rea,  ly  "  t 

ed     b  e  1  ;■  ;e  J^J^  "^  r'""'"''  "™"''  ''^^  ''■""- 
'.>    lilt  idpacit\   ot  his  irreat  nros*:^*      p^fi,     r 

>.esen,en  left  shortly  after.     I  „.[.,  of.rto'^n  ^  t,?! 

an,r:,er  T'  °^ ''-''  -^  "■^'  ^-n *»„  tv: 

a>.  ions:  after,  T  was  ,.assni,(;  throMffl,  Ann  street-ih,. 
''""ip."ff  Rrnnnd  for  ..-enins-an,!  on  two  of  he  lit  e 
P...sh-carts  I  saw  the  hook  on  the  one  an  -  ,,1  i  ",„'  "^ 
on^the    other,   offcred-h„t    not   scllin,,-,.    C^Z 


CHAPTER  Xlll. 

"  'Swat  him  one,  Ike — szeat  him  one!*  And  that  pesky 
boy  up  and  lUuixj  ine  ivhole  pot  of  paste  over  me,  as 
I  left  the  editor's  ofiiee  four  steps  at  a  time/' 

I  was  much  entertained  by  the  newspaper  reporter  who 
sat  at  my  left  at  table.  He  always  had  so  many  thuigs 
to  tell  me  that  he  had  seen  from  day  to  day.  1  asked  him 
how  he  got  things  to  report,  and  if  it  was  hard  woik. 
"No,"  said  he;  "you  see  an  occurrence  and  simply  write 
it  up.  The  more  'mportant  it  is  the  mure  money  you  get 
for  the  story.  '  Everything  was  a  ".«iury"  with  hi n.  I 
thought — at  the  time — that  this  was  possibly  w*  J 
had  so  often  heard  the  newspapers  spokei.  f  as  so  lull 
of  untruths,  but  I  have  since  learned  that  I  was  wro' 
and  that  this  was  not  the  reason.  After  that  I,  too,  ;.  ed 
to  watch  for  "slories,"  th  it  I  might  tell  him  and  help  him 
in  hi'-  business. 

One  day  I  went  over  on  the  top  of  the  P;  'isades,  vhich 
the  Statesman  had  told  me  was  a  fine  trip  to  take,  as 
the  view  was  so  be  ,'itiful  up  and  down  the  Hudson  river, 
with  New  York  lying  just  across,  lo  the  east.  While  go- 
ing through  the  wood,  ovf^r  an  unfrequented  foot-path, 
I  found  a  ma,  v1  had  hung  himstli.  'Here,"  said  T 
to  myself,  "is  st  .'  that  will  tartle  thrm."  I  remem- 
bered what  a  time  there  was  whe-  >ld  Swisher  hung  him- 
self at  a  place  back  in  the  mountains,  about  ten  miles  from 
Higlimont.     Farmers  stopped  plowin.j 


.nil 


111   ;ci.t 


64 


^ 


MV   FRIEXD   iiILL 

65 

a  liorse  only  l.alf  shu.l,  i|,c  ,K,M„ftioc  cl,««l  ,„    •.     , 
and  even  the  "6<;h  int'  .-in-i    •■  ,  "1*  "*  '''^■•=^. 

'i').osc.\v..o  .Kurnt:  or  ;'.'';;. :,t;  "V;"'"  """''''"^'• 

0".-  «oo,l  uhcrc  the  ol.l     1  '""  "'^^  «"'  '° 

'<.e  coroner.  ,ot,  .;.,:,'';:::';:;;;,  •^!;--  -;'7  for 
camp-meet  iirr.  or  i  rn.mf,,  (  •  .  '^  ^Itiliudist 

^^Vt  co,u,n,    Zn      "        ,  r"  r,"   ^'"''"^  ''■•""     '■-"'■'« 
'-".etolo,A-aft     tleclk    '■     '"V"'"  ""'"^'•^-  ''^'^  »' 

nu...  have  hecn  kt  -';  t' U'a  rV'' ■' n''''T  "T^ 
suic  ( ,  ■    .vas  an  ..vm,t  f,  ""^'HUr.       Ihcbwisher 

An.l  here     ha  I  fo   '  " '"'    ''="''''  '"'''"■^  ""  "-'I-", 

the  san,e  ■•ine  "   ^u^uT  "''"  '""'  '^'f  "^  --W  by 
Sive  ,0  the  Reporter  1^  '?'"■''■""•"  """'^'"  ''  "'° 

-.ne  n,ore  'easv     onev'  o       ,;"-;; V'",, "'"  "  ^^"'  ''""^ 
Yes.  I  will  wri'te  it  uL-1  /  ""^  P""'"  P'-'-"Hl'cr. 

wrote  i,  as  ^^^11..^    "'*'"  ',?""  '''  ^''"^^'^  l»'"<-"     I 
''story"  a!  I  CO,  MT,  '^P'^'^^''''^'  "'^''^-S  it  as  long  a 

"story."  ^'  '""^  ""■  '"iI>ortance  of  the 

yot,  S  in  rt^rrso"''"^;  'h' v"'?^  •-^^'^" "- """-' 
■".y.«-  -stor;.'':;:,,  Je  tl-fv:; '"  ^  ""''"■'  ^-"^  "•- 

Is  the  editor  in'"  I  n.  -r-i        ~.      . 

Pastiiifr  soniethinp-  in  ,  h-     u'  ■  ''"'^c-hoy  uho  was 

"Do  yon  bnv  Zfes  l.^S;   °  ""°"  '  '''"^'''^'  -"- 
••Ves."  sai.l  he,  eage,  like,  "if  th.  v  .    e  goo,I    ,,es 

-f ;:.'  r.  •  ™;  --=,..  "*-- 

^iep.n  up  hurrie  !y  and  asked :     "' 


IS  It  '■ 


w 


fiof    ;,, 


gave  ,t  to  hfm,  and  stood  waiting.     He  lo^k 


naf 


m. 


ed 


66 


MV   FRIIiND  BILL. 


I  'M\ 


it  over,  sat  down,  then  looked  at  nie  vvitli  a  sort  of  a 
"where'ii  -  you  -  drop  -  from  -  anyhow"  sneer,  and  said  : 
"Young  man,  you're  new;  this  thing  is  worth  nothing 
to  us." 

"What!  a  man  hangs  himself,  and  you  are  iu>-  glad 
to  hear  it !" 

"No,  \vc  can't  use  this  stuff."  And  he  went  back  to 
his  writing,  paying  no  attention  to  me- -no  more  than  if 
I  had  been  a  mere  spring  poet.  Well,  I  was  possibly  a 
little  hasty,  but  I  could  not  help  telling  him  in  rather  a 
high  key:  "Herealter,  sir,  every  time  1  find  a  man  who 
has  hung  himself  I  will  just  let  him  hang;  and,  sir,"  as  [ 
sidled  ofT  toward  the  door  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  "I 
hope  you  will  be  the  first  one  I  find." 

He  called,  quick  like,  to  the  boy:  "Swat  him  one,  Ike 
— swat  him  one!"  And.  do  you  believe  it,  that  pcskT" 
of!ice-l)oy  threw  a  whole  bucket  of  soft  paste  over  me 
as  I  went  down  stairs  four  stops  at  a  time.  At  the  bot- 
tom of  the  steps  I  fi  11  into  the  arms  of  the  Reporter,  who 
wanted  to  know :  "Whatever  in  the  world  is  the  matter, 
Ruben  ?" 

"I  have  been  to  see  the  Editor  with  a  'story,'  "  said  T. 

Would  you  believe  it.  while  I  was  in  a  barbcr-shoj)  pay- 
ing two  dollars  to  get  that  tarnal  paste  removed,  that  en- 
terprising Reporter  was  "writing  up  a  story"  about  how 
"Rul)en  saw  the  Editor."  He  told  me  at  supper  that  he 
had  sold  his  "story"  for  six  dollars.  I  have  done  no  news- 
paper work  since. 


i 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

"^^'i'lg  of  an  iinsclfuh  nature  I  -  -,.,/    /  .     , 

"-'crc  many  pro  Mr  /  •    V  ''  ^""''  '^  ^^''^^ 

J  /iopii   killed  in  the  tircck." 

Ever  since  the  cvtMiino-  t  f^i  «    r 
wrestlcT  a.  Iho  muse    "  °/  "'^  expcrienco  will,  the 

coat  fr,.,„  was  tl,  Iw"      1"!    "','',  '"^  ""^■^'  ""™  '"^ 

n'anner.  a„,l  uscVv    y  p  oTt'v  r        "''T  '^^^^'"''^'  '" 
lil^-e  the  other  preacher  •,,-,,      ?''''"'•     "*=  "''''^  "°'  ">'" 

He  eve,.  lo^uC!  :;:  ^'  1  rrXt"fT'  '^  '"?'■ 
"'""  as  I  di.l  for  the  other  ''  ""■''■'  '"' 

these  errors  on  the  par  of  ,1,.  P  ,  '"'  '''■"'  ""'''- 
-orry  to  the  Sta  esnn  ,  1  '"t^"-^'^"'""  »-e  no  en.l  of 
and  ask-e,I  if  w'e  wo.I  T.       ''°"T  "''''"  ''"''  "P  '»  "^. 

cepted  his  invitrtirtidtrLn:  S':.;;:-  ^^  - 
yo.^'':vrsr!t':.as  '^t,";"""-"^  ^"  ■■>'->  -p.  «- 

member  o  h  c  ,h  witht  ",'''  '"''  ""'  ''^  -^^  ^ 
didn't  f„l,  '  ""  """  ■■'«■'"  to  take  i,s  in      (T 

67 


68 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


I)  I 


inexperienced  eyes.  Everybody  seemed  to  know  our 
friend  and  treated  him  with  such  marked  deference  that 
1  could  but  wonder:  "Who  is  this  man  tliat  all  should 
treat  him  with  so  much  respect?"  He  showed  us  through 
the  library,  then  took  us  through  the  various  rooms,  where 
I  saw  more  queer  things  than  1  had  ever  seen  in  one  house 
before.  There  were  swords,  and  little  wire  baskets,  big 
clubs  with  stripes  all  around  them,  and  mittens  nearly  as 
big  as  baby  pillows,  and  many  strange  things  I  knew  no 
names  for.  I  asked  the  young  man  what  those  "baby 
pillows"  were  for,  as  I  could  see  no  possible  use  for  such 
great  clumsy  mittens.  He  said  they  were  used  on  the 
hands  while  "boxing."  I  told  him  that  when  we  boxen:!  at 
Highmont  we  used  only  our  hands.  He  then  asked  if  I 
ever  boxed  at  my  town.  Well,  I  felt  so  much  like  laugh- 
ing that  I  could  hardly  keep  my  face  straight,  I  warned 
to  laugh  so  much;  but  I  kept  quiet  and  smothered  my 
mirthful  feelings  as  best  I  could  until  I  finally  told  him 
to  "Ask  the  boys  back  home !" 

"How  would  you  like  to  put  on  the  gloves  with  me?" 
he  asked.  Now,  while  I  felt  my  boxing  blood  beginning 
to  boil,  I  somehow  liked  this  young  man  so  well  that  I 
sort  o'  hated  to  hurt  him,  and  I  told  him  as  much.  "Xo; 
when  I  get  excited  I  forget  myself  and  strike  very  hard. 
I  might  hurt  you  unintentionally,  and  this  I  would  after- 
ward regret — but  too  late.  No,  I  don't  think  we  had 
better  put  them  on."  He  did  look  so  frail  alongside  of 
my  big,  awkward  frame  that  I  just  couldn't  have  the  heart 
to  risk  hitting  him  one  of  my  sledge-hammer  blows. 

"Come,  now,  Ruben,  you  need  have  no  fear.  I  am 
used  to  hard  hits." 

"W'ell,  I  will  put  them  on  and  will  try  very  hard  not  to 
forget  myself:  but  remember  if  I  dr  hurt  you,  it  will  be 
because  of  my  becoming  unduly  excited." 


MY  FRIEND   BILL. 


69 


was  liv  'r„m  •      "''?."■•■''  ''  "'"=  >"""^'  f'--l'">v  wlu,n,  I 
inskf^  ^,,,1  I,  ^'^  aclvaiKape  of  l,ii„.  Ihu  l,e 

s   and  s  ,11  more  conn'ng  fron,  all  parts  of  ,l,e  1,,     e' 
K  "as  f,u,te  a  gfrn,   show  to  sec  a  fnl   lirfi . 

""  '^'^f-  ^  '>■■.'  f^' HK.  n,ei:  In    r;;::::.''  :^ 

fo,  ,       r  f  '"■•  ""'  "■"•^'  "'^'y  ''■''  "«»■<!  into  that 

roon,.     r  began  to  weaken  when  f  sa«-  the  wav  thev  ken 
connng.     I  .li.ln't  mi„,|  hoxin..  when  ,h,.r  ^ 

aronnd  1.,.  the  S.atesn,an,  Un  :;  .n     ^     isT,;;:.',: 
appear  nisiffnificant  hefnre  his  friends  I    „  ^•\'*""' 

^o  it    and  went  as  thongh  f  w::r;lU  i:-!^^^^^^^^^^^^ 

-"PMore„,e.     H.d  .1  J.^ht  .C^h:    ^fsoM: 

'0"":,::'":;;!;  ^"""'■'  T"  "■'■'  """  -"'"  ..-  four  hloek 
nctore  the  other  one  had  started  np  the  pike      Tnst  is  T 

nsht  at  the  yonnff  man's  head.     Strange  to  sav  it  ,V..lJ> 
^^     i">  even  a  little  hit-for  he  was" 't    1," e      F      , 

Wld   "™^'  '  '"'  '"••"  '"'^  ""-^  "-  fi-  Wow  Zd 

bea  t  fnl  l„,dd„,ff  and  seented  ,0  fairly  shatter  things 
I  chd,  come  .0  for  more  than  a  half-hour :  and  when  I 
_<1"1.  ben,g  of  an  unselfish  nature.  I  wa„t«l  to  k!.!:! 
">cre  were  many  people  killed  in  the  wreck.     I  was  gr^ai- 


.1 

m 

in 


ti- 


Hi 


i; 
li  { 


70 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


ly  surprised  when  I  saw  that  the  room  had  not  been  shat- 
tered. I  learned  two  things  that  niglit— first,  that  the 
meek  young  man  was  the  boxing  professor  of  the  club, 
and  the  other  was  that  country  boys  had  better  confine 
themselves  to  wrestling. 


Ml 


CHAPTER  XV. 

"The  zvorslnpof  ^old  lu,s  .,/avv.  been  more  devout  ,eilk 
me  when  I  eould  eany  ,ke  idol  in  my  own  poeke!." 

left  two  seats  at  the  table  had  been  so  ,i„iet  that  his  pres- 
ence was  hardly  noticed.  ' 

He  cante  and  uent  withotu  a  word,     ile  never  joined 
"  the  conversation,  an<l  yet  he  seeme.l  ever  int^t  on 
listennig  to  the  others  taii<ing. 

He  brol<e  the  silence  one  evening  when  the  snbject  of 
..  .ented  fortnnes"  was  being  .liscnssed.     The  Keiorter 
.hat  day,  had  „,terviewe<l  a  n,an  who  was  the  prospective 
lieir  to  a  vast  fortnne  in  England 
"He  is  snre  to  get  it,  too,"  said  the  Reporter.     -1  le  says 

"/^e  gintlen.an  nevair  ^e  fort.me  veel  receive,"  was  the 
broken  comment  of  our  Frenchman.  .Ml  eves  were  it 
once    npon    him.      The  tionl.t  cast  npon  th'e  "Re,K,rte,^ 

ooK  np  wni, :      \  hy  Uo  you  think  he  will  not  come  into 
tile  inheritance?' 

«  htteel  vdlage    and    n,  «■  grate  citie  peepil  whu  high 

fort.me.s  veel  inhereet  from  «-  fn.dish    1„„    ,  .,, :.^ 

^e  ,.eepil  who  hav  a  franc  yet  irdierl-et.     Evair  ."nJl'mle 

71 


1 1 


■'I 


'  If 


7^ 


MV    FRIHXD   BILL. 


\ 


i 


no  (!oul>t,  same  like  zc  ginllenian  you  meet  zis  day.  All 
hav  ze  grate  conlicianz.  hut  none  gets  ze  fortune. 

"If  ze  millions,  ze  peepil  of  Americk  zay  veel  com  to 
zem  von  day,  vould  com,  zen  ze  greate  banque  of  ze  Ing- 
lish  vould  pe  empt  and  all  ze  land  zold  and  ze  gold  zent  to 
Americk  in  many  sheeps. 

"Ze  Inglish  like  ze  gcjld  verai  much  and  no  let  ze  gold 
com  to  Americk.  Ze  Inglish  make  ze  law  to  keep  ze  gold. 
No,  zc  gintleman  you  meet  veel  nevair  ze  fortune 
inhereet." 

The  Reporter  must  have  known  that  there  was  much 
trutii  in  what  the  Frenchman  said,  hut  he  turned  the  argu- 
ment by  asking: 

"Why  is  it  that  vou  French  are  so  jealous  of  the  Eng- 
lish? Why  do  you  always  sj)eak  ill  of  them?  Why  do 
you  think  that  nothing  good  can  be  done  by  that  nation?" 

"If  ze  truth  be  ill— and  I  speek  ze  truth— I  speek  it 
with  no  jealous.  If  many  peepil  expect  ze  vast  fortune, 
and  no  peepil  get  ze  von  franc,  zen  zair  must  be  ze  grate 
wrong.  Ze  Inglish  make  ze  law  to  keep  ze  gold.  My 
own  La  Belle  France  make  ze  law  zat  ze  gold  shall  be 
distribut.  Ze  great  fortune  -dways  ees  expect  from  ze 
Inglish  and  nevair  from  ze  French.  My  countrie  make 
ze  honeest  law.  Ven  ze  recch  tic  een  France  ze  heirs  vas 
all  hunt  out  from  evair  place  een  ze  vorld.  and  ze  gold 
honeest  distribut. 

"I  hav  ze  von  recch  aunt,  vera  old.  Eef  she  tie  zis 
veek  ze  conzul  all  ovair  ze  vorld  vind  me  and  dell  me,  and 
I  ged  my  j)art  zoon,  and  no  hav  to  expect  alvays  and 
nevair  ged." 

vStrange  to  relate,  that  very  week  the  Reporter  came 
home  one  evening  greatly  excited.  He  had  seen  in  a 
paper  an  advertisement  which  quite  accurately  described 
niir  Frenchman.     It   had   been   inserterl  bv   tlic   French 


MV   FRIEXD   BILL. 


7i 


consul   asking  information  that  would  lead  to  the  tlndin« 
of  one  A[.  I^a  Letra.  ^ 

When  the  paper  was  shown  to  the  Frenchman  lie  read 
the  advertisement  and  handed  it  hack  to  the  Kemrter 
without  comment,  simply  thanking-  him. 

The  next  evening  we  learned  that  the  "reech  aunt"  had 
died  and  that  M.  f.a  Fetra  was  one  of  the  heirs 

I  never  could  have  helieved  that  prosiK^ctiv^  fortune 
could  so  change  a  man  in  the  eyes  of  people  who  had  he- 
fore  scarcely  noticed  him.  The  good  fortune  changed 
M  La  Fetra  less  than  any  one  else  at  the  house 

L  ncertainty  as  to  the  amount  of  an  inheritance  never 
places^^  the    prospective    f.rtune   anywhere    this    side    of 


The  Reporter  was  the  first  to  reap  the  benefit  of  the 
find.  He  wrote  "stories"  for  all  the  pajx^-s  and  sold 
heni  at  his  own  price.  In  less  than  a  week  plain  U 
La  Fetra  was  "Count  La  Fetra,"  and  was  '•traveling  in 
America  for  his  health."  Only  the  rich  "travel  for  /fieir 
iKalth  The  rest  of  the  world  are  simplv  "travelers  " 
trom  the  ordinary  citizen  down  to  the  tramp 

What  a  change  all  this  ado  must  have  been  to  M.  La 
l;etra.  the  prospective  heir  to  a  vast  French  fortune  " 
Tailors  vied  with  each  other  in  arraving  him  in  their 
finest  importations,  and  were  only  too' delighted  to  have 
linn  open  an  account  with  them.  Florists  kept  him  sup- 
Phed  w.th  their  rarest  flowers,  and  seemed  almost 
ofTended  when  he  spoke  of  pay.  Kre  long  the  carriages 
of  society  began  stopping  at  our  door,  and  Count 
i-a  I<etra  was  the  attraction  of  manv  a  social  event 

'he  Actor  set  about  getting  tip  what  he  called  a  tlieatre 
r:.rtv  for  the  "Count."  and  went  so  far  as  to  engage  a  1>ox 
and  Older  a  fine  supper  at  "Del's."  The  nptv  fM..-  fi... 
prevented  its  success  was  that  T  refused  to  loan  him  the 


(J: 

I 


Mi 

?!   I 


iJ.f  ■ 


11 


74 


MY   FRIExND   BILL. 


money  "till  next  week."  The  worship  of  gold  was  always 
more  devout  with  me  when  I  could  carry  the  idol  in  my 
own  pocket. 

Why  prolong  this  story?  It  would  be  hut  a  recital 
of  the  honors  and  courtesies  thrust  upon  a  stranger  by 
peoj)le  who  had  no  interest  whatever  in  the  "man,"  but  in 
what  they  thought  the  "man  was  to  get." 

The  end  came.  M.  La  Fetra— "Count"  no  longer— 
got  his  "fortune."  The  dear  old  aunt  had  willed  most  of 
her  wealth  to  the  Church,  and  his  portion  amounted  to 
just  thirty-scz'cn  dollars  and  fifty  cents. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

'"'■'"^  Bargain  Doy  Pi,/,,,.,  iUnalio,.  I,as  ,nucU  to  Jo 
ci'it/i  the  condition  of  tilings." 

.1    out     /'"",'  '"'■  """  ""^  """  "•-'•^  ■'"  •-•■- 

ms  man  to  l,e.     Tom  was  quiet.  a.ul  even  courteous     Mis 

Te*?:  :Ts  tr''  ^"^ "''- '"'-  -^^  ->  --"■  ^-'^ 

;,         ""^  "  ■'*    "'»'    earnestness    al«nt    his  manner  that 
always  comn,an,le,l  instant  attention.     He  h.      ,..''„ 

Lan<l  of  the  MuhtiRht  Sun."     While  he  was  vet  T  ^ 

rsi^tinitTs'--^-'"^" '"'"  '■^•'  -"- '"  -  " 

n  s  sentmitnts.     Smco  comniK  to  .'\n.eriea  he  had  snent 

Z  r1las':e"";''","r''"^  '"  '"^  '"■"--"'  ofX 
poorer  c  asse,.     Ue  had  traveled  extensivelv    had   seen 

near  y  all  of  onr  cities,  and  tnade  a  stn.lv  of'mlr    n  torn 
our  laws  and  onr  ,«ople.     ■'You  think  of  n,e  •'   L'         1^ 
evenms-  at  table,  "as  an  a.tardns,  or  as  a  soch  s     .! 
;•  V  an,  r  so     n    „     ,  ,^,  „^,„  ,,,^   -„--;:;■-- 

J  see  that  God  has  ff.ven  to  all  ef|„al  natural  ri.d.ls  has 
P.ven  to  all  the  desire  to  live.  When  I  see  the  s  e  ',  r 
on  .eann^  down  upo.  the  greater,  hy  reason  ot  Ha,:, 
Ind,  they.  w„h  superior  ntinds.  have  been  able  to  m.ak-  • 
«hen  T  see  each  year  these  laws  bdntr  m.-.,le  ,„.-e  h.ir  '-n' 
-.ne  than  before;  when  I  see  the  poor  b^in. :,«:., r.re": 

75 


76 


MY   FRIEXD   BILL. 


and  the  rich  more  doininccring:  when  T  see  men  witli 
aspirations  to  lead  a  better  hfe  f^nmnd  down  until  they 
lose  all  hope  and  become  thoroiio-hly  bad ;  when  I  see  the 
faces  of  little  children  pinched  and  wan  by  reason  of  pre- 
natal care  of  a  starving  mother;  when  I  see  these  little 
children  grow  up  amid  sunoundings  that  tend  only  to 
make  them  worse  even  than  their  parents;  when,  I  say,  I 
see  all  this  awful  condition,  with  a  tendency  to  going  con- 
tinually lower,  then  I  cry  out  in  utter  despair,  and  in  my 
effort  to  change  the  conditions  I  am  called  an  anarchist.'' 

Just  here  the  Statesman  broke  in  with:  "How  would 
you  change  the  existing  conditions?" 

Said  the  Anarchist,  now  becoming  thoroughly  wrought 
up  with  the  subject:  "I  would  have  equitai)le  laws— not 
one  law  for  the  rich  and  another  for  the  poor.  I  would 
not  have  the  money  power  continually  changing  the  laws, 
governing  finance,  to  their  own  advantage  and  to  ihe 
detriment  of  labor,  as  you  know  they  are  doing,  year  after 
year.  Money  is  being  made  too  valuable  for  the  cap- 
italist, and  labor  and  labor's  product  too  cheap." 

"We  want  things  cheap."  spoke  up  one  of  the  lady 
boarders,  one  who.  the  Statesman  said,  was  a  regular 
"Bargain  Day  Hunter." 

Whether  the  Anarchist  meant  it  for  her  or  as  a  general 
proposition,  I  do  not  know,  but  he  said:  "The  bargain 
day  fighting  battalion  has  much  to  do  with  the  condition 
of  things.  They  buy  only  at  unprofitable  prices  to  the 
producer :  the  merchant  must  buy  at  a  low  price,  and,  in 
turn,  the  manufacturer  must  cut  down  his  labor  (it  aUvays 
ends  at  labor)  that  he  may  produce  the  article  for  this 
cheap  'counter.'  This  is  becoming  to  be  a  bargain- 
hunting  nation,  which  is  not  wise.  Fair  prices  build  up, 
while  prices  below  living  value  degrade.  *I  bought  a 
'bargain'  to-day,'  translated  into  human  language  means: 


MV   FRIF.XD   BILL. 

'I  I)on,i^IU  a    feu-  drops  of  tlic  life's  Mood  of 
iello\v-bein<r/ 

*'^'  vou  conid  sec  what  I  am  at  time; 
iiix)n  you  would  not  be  suri)rised  at  the 


a  starving 


'Oh,  there  are  too 


m 


compelled  to  l(K)k 
•se  sentiments." 


any  Da.tjos  comincf  to  tl 


try."  said  the  Statesman,  who  is  tl 


Ins  eoun- 


1 


'We  can't  help  it  if  thev  1 


1' 'roughly  American. 


la 


ve  to  work-  for  low  w 


ive  on  a  crust  in  a  hovel.     Whv,  for  that 
were  so  used  to  low  wa-cs  and  hovel  1 


a  La' 


s  and 


land  that  th 
their  condition 


ey  would  not  know  what  to  do  if  we  cl 


matter,  they 

iving-  in  their  own 

lauLfed 


Afy  friends."  replied  the  Anarch 


lioped  not  to  speak  of  what  I  1 


^t,  carnestlv.  "I  had 


Amer 


narc 
lave  seen  this  da  v.  hut  wl 


■ica  is  mentioned  T  cannot  kwp  I,ack  tl 


len 


le  storv 


■;  I 

..4.1  ■ 

|H 

Ji  i 

m 


m 


r¥'§ 


4P^ 


i 


il  I 


CllAPTHk    W  JI. 

'The  /lying  -a'hccls  of  the  great  factory  rivvv  stilled,  and 
the  grass  gre:^'  in  the  streets  :eh^  re  onee  trod  the  (•"';- 
tented  zeorkers. 


"You  know  tliat  my  work  is  among  the  poor  of  the 
East  Side.     They  all  seem  to  know  me  (uer  there.     The 
little  children  are  never  too  much  taken  up  with  tl  .  ir  play 
not  to  notice  when  I  come  among  them.    Ahout  a  year  ago 
I  noticed  a  hright  little  girl  for  the  first  time.     The  other 
children  told  me  that  she.  with  her  mother,  had  jiist  moved 
into  the  neighhorhood.     She  was  soon  one  of  my  friends, 
atv-l  was  always  glad  to  see  Tom,  as  they  all  call  me. 
i'loy  had   rooms,   plain   hut   neatly   furnished,   and   kept 
tiicm  so  clean  that  they  seemed  out  of  place  amid  the  sur- 
roundings.    I  learned,   from    time    to    time,  hits  of  the 
mother's  story,  until  1  nuist  have  had  it  all.     'J'he  record 
of  her  family  hegan  at  the  very  heginning  of  yo  ir  country 
as  a  nation.     Her  great  great  grandfather  was  a  captain 
in  the  War  of  Independence,  and  her  grandfather  was 
with  Perry  on  Lake  Erie  in  the  War  of  1812.     Following 
the  record  of  the  family,  her  father  went  with  Scott  to 
Mexico,  and,  when    the    Civil  War    hroke    out,  he  was 
chosen  and  went  as  colonel  of  a  ^fassachusctts  regimen^ 
^For  each  point  of  this  record  she  had  conclusive  proof  to 
show.     She  married  a  young  man  in  her  home  village, 
which  was  supported  entirely  hy  a  great  manufacturing 
company.     This  company  shortly  after  closed  its  doors, 
having  been  absorbed  by  a  trust  specially  protected  by 

78 


Hk^ 


(led,  and 
the  (•""- 


r  of  the 
re.     The 
leir  play 
year  ago 
he  other 
t  moved 
fnenrls, 
rail  nie. 
nd   kept 
the  siir- 
>  of  the 
i'  rceord 
country 
captain 
:ier  was 
>1  lowing 
Scott  to 
he  was 
'gimen<-. 
^roof  to 
village, 
icturing 
;  doors, 
cted  by 
78 


MV    nUESD    niLL. 

■narkct,  f.,rn.o,,cv  Hill   „,'"],    1       •*-    ''''''  '"  "l"^'" 
•l'^'  ran-  n,atori"l    „  ^  '"*'''  '"  >"'"^  '"'"'■  f-""-" 

lifc-s  bJ   o       :        ,;'' ;• '"'''"/''-l"'''  -I.  .1.-  vory 

of  .his  great  f.-^  "        ."j    r'  ii;  ,      '^'  "■""'''  """•'» 
was  not  nn---  to  rl.v     ,   .1  •  ^^'-'iKcrs.     J  Iktc 

-iK.,sa„rc:i;';vT"''''''^'^''''''^^'' ""'''■'» 

"mst  seek  its  br™    .,.      ,  l"-'>^m<n,s  cnmmmy 

US  urcad  elsewhere— must  seek-  if«  l.r    ; 

a  tini(>  f  10   '   .  o       I    /•  '><-\\    York.     J'or 

home  had  bef„?.  "  '""'^''"'''  ^^■'"''  «'  ">e  old 

^aic,  '.llor  bi'rr:,r  ":.fTr'  r  ""•"^■'  -  '■<= 

"-'-  EditH  .as  ..a^cet.;;.;:::  S'  Tl.^Lt'.^t 


r 
W 


ilf 


■'.>. 


") ; 


w 


MICROCOPY    RESOLUTION    TEST   CHART 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  2). 


1.0 


I.I 


1.25 


1^  II  2.8 

2.5 

1h       ^^^^ 

u^llii 

2.2 

*■         IMIj  o  X 

S  ii'° 

2.0 

u, 

•i     u 

tuuu 

1.8 

!.4 

1.6 



^     .APPLIED  IN/MGE 


Inc 


1653   East   Main   Street 

Rochester,    New  York         14609       USA 

(716)   482  -  0300  -  Phone 

(716)   288  -  59G9  -  Fax 


m 


III 


I 


80 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


bread  was  now  an  earnest  one  for  the  young  mother.  As 
long  as  she  could  get  steady  work  to  do  at  the  factory,  and 
with  what  sewing  she  could  do  at  night,  she  made  out  to 
live  fairly  well,  but  of  late  I  had  seen  Edith  very  seldom. 
Each  time  her  sweet  little  face,  so  bright  and  cheery  when 
I  had  first  seen  it,  seemed  more  wan  and  pinched.  Did 
you  ever  watch  a  rose,  see  it  bud  and  bloom  and  fade? 
Edith  of  late  had  faded  fast.  I  had  missed  her  from 
among  her  playmates  for  several  of  my  late  visits.  To- 
day I  asked :  'Where  is  Edith  ?' 

"'Oh,  don't  you  know,  Tom,  that  Edith  is  very  sick?' 
asked  one  of  the  little  girls.     'Aly  mamma  was  there  this 
morning,  and  she  says  that  Edith  cannot  live  at  all.     Did 
you  know  that  they  had  moved?    Yes,  Tom,  the  man  that 
owns  the  factory  made  them  get  out  yesterday.     He  was 
awful  mean.     He  said  he  couldn't  keep  paupers.     Tom, 
Edith  wasn't  a  pauper,  was  she?     Why,  all  of  her  grand- 
papas  were  soldiers,  and    made    this    country   free,  my 
mamma  says.     How  could  she  be  a  pauper,  when  that 
factory  man,  who  only  came  when  the  country  was  free,  is 
so  rich  ?     My  manniia  says  when  that  man  came  he  only 
had  a  pack  on  his  back;  now  he  makes  everybody  work 
nearly  for  nothing  and  fines  them  if  they  are  a  minute  late, 
and  makes  lots  of  money.     Edith's  mamma  worked  for 
him  a  long  time,  and  when  he  turned  her  off  she  couldn't 
pay  her  rent  any  more,  and  then  he  turned  her  out,  and 
she  went  to  live  away  upstairs  in  the  next  house,  in  a  little 
room  what  another  very  poor  woman  lets  her  live  in  for 
nothing.     Tom,  my  mamma  says  Edith  was  awful  sick 
this  morning ;  she  cried  real  hard  and  said :  'I  want  Tom. 
He  is  the  only  man  who  is  kind  to  us,  mamma.     Every- 
lx)dy  is  so  wicked  but  Tom.     Tell  him  to  come.     I  want 
to  see  him  before  I  go.'     You  must  go  to  see  her,  won't 
you,  dear  Tom  ?* 


MY   FRIEND    BILL. 


her.  As 
tory,  and 
de  out  to 
,'  seldom, 
sry  when 
ed.  Did 
lid  fade? 
ler  from 
its.  To- 
ry sick?* 
Iierc  this 
Ul.  Did 
nan  that 

He  was 
'.  Tom, 
r  grand- 
free,  my 
!ien  that 
s  free,  is 

he  only 
:ly  work 
ute  late, 
•ked  for 
couldn't 
>ut,  and 
1  a  little 
e  in  for 
ful  sick 
It  Tom. 

Every- 

I  want 
',  won't 


8i 


"I  needed  no  urging  after  that.  The  little  girl  led  nie 
up  a  (lark,  rickety  stairway  to  the  verv  garret  of  an  old 
house,  and  there,  on  some  rags,  lav  the  grandchild  of  a 
long  hue  of  soldiers,  dying,  starving,  in  a  country  her  an- 
cestors had  made  free,  enlarged,  saved  and  aUvavs  de- 
fended. It  the  rich  man-made  ricli  ],v  legal  rohherv— 
could  have  seen  that  sight,  I  know  that  his  riches  would 
not  have  had  for  him  their  glitter  or  their  wonted  value 

"  'Oh,  Tom,  I  am  so  glad  you  have  come.     I  was  afraid 
1  would  have  to  go  without  seeing  vou.'     She  could  say 
hut  a  few  words  at  a  time.     She  was  but  the  shadow  of 
the  hdith  I  had  seen  a  year  ago.      She  was  sinking  fast 
when    I    reached    her.     I    shall    never    forget    the    end. 
Mamma    I  am  so  hungry.     Will  I  be  lumgrv  in  heaven? 
U  III  God  give  all  the  bread  to  the  rich  factory  man  and 
et  us  starve?     Will  the  rich  sit  in  the  great  hotels  there 
hstenmg  to  the  sweet  nmsic,  with  so  much  to  eat  that  they 
wil    never  be  hungry,  while  we  look  in  at  the  window 
wuhout  a  crust?     Will  God  love  the  factory  man  there 
and    give    everything  to  him  and  nothing  to  us^'     She 
gro;ys  delirious;  her  gaze  seems  far  awav,  and  upward 
as  she  continues:     'Mamma,   listen.     Do  you  hear  the 
drums   beating?     See,    there's    a    long   line   of    soldiers 
(Iressed  up  so  queer-more  and  more  of  them  coming! 
1  here,  mamma,  watch ;  they  are  fighting.     A    big    man 
leads  a  company.     See,  quick-he  drives  back  the  other 
soldiers,  who  have  red  coats  on.     There,  the  great  general 
is  thanking  him,  and    everybody    is    throwing   up    hats 
Mamma,  look  at  the  big  ships  on  the  water.     Oh.  how  the 
cannons  roar!     See,    the   masts    are  flving  in  sp'  Hers 
There-one  of  them  is  sinking.     A  great' man  is  on  it' 
Oh.  mamma,  his  ship  will  sink  with  him— no-there's  a 
boat-oh,  look  quick,  one  of  the  men  in  the  boat  looks 
hke  the  picture  of  grandpa.     Now,  see,  he  is  going  with 


rl. 


i 


if' I 

11?* 


4t, 


li 

1  N 

f I'  \ 


S 


I  I 


111 


ih 


\H 


lit    r 

■6  •: 


82 


WY   FRIEND   J'lLL. 


tic  great  man  to  anotI,er  ship.     There,  see,  ,„an,„,a,  some 
of  the  sh.ps  are  nm,ung  away  and  the  great  n,an   s  foT 
lowmg  them.     They   stop.     There   is    'o  figi.t,";   „  w 
They  are  a  I  go.ng  away  together,  and  the  great  man   ,  n 
the  front  sh,p.     Onr  flag  is  the  only  onellying-  all  tl  e 
others  are  ptdled  dow,..    Man,n,a,  why  don't  I  see  any  rh 
factory  n,a„  fighting?    Oh.  look;  here's  fighting  on  te 
ml  ag.m      See  the  awfn,  hi,,  those  soldier^are  ain  hi  g 

a»ay^     Won  t  t,,e  fightmg  ever  stop.  „,amn,a?     Grandpa 

I    %htn,g  agan,.     Ho    is    o,der    now,    and    ,,as    pr   L 

othe,s  on,  an     with    „1,  so  „,any  soldiers  hehind'him 

i t ,      V;?  *''"'  "  "  ^'"  '"■"■■  '»"-"°  '"-e  s,,coting 

ejcs  opened  « ,de  and  her  face  shone  « ith  a  radiance  I  hid 
Si^edlso  /i:;^"''^' '""  '■'  -^"^  ""'^  E"""'    ^^- 

si>em,";',eft  ■.;;■;''""'■:;  ^  ^'"  ^-^"^'^  ^"  -^"-^"-•"  we 

nu  icic  tnc  la..       io  one  carii,.o;  to  speak. 


ma,  some 
^n  is  fol- 
ng   now. 
nan  is  in 
;  all  the 
any  rich 
?  on  the 
Climbing 
the  hil!, 
running- 
jrandpa 
>    pretty 
nd  him. 
booting. 
1.'     We 
nts  her 
^e  I  had 
led,  she 
1.     She 


CHAPTCR  XVIII. 

''Thirty  days!    Next!" 

I  think  it  was  the  second  day  after  I  had  found  the 
i^oard.ig  place  when  Tom    the  ''Anarchi.f '    f  r 

^ad  taken,  great  liking,  clnJtot:^^^^ 
and  sauJ  he  .vould  help  me  to  hunt  for  mv  friend  B  1       ' 
I  was  glad  to  have  him  go  out  with  n.e,  as    w  In  I 
vent  alone  on  the  street,  even  the  sn.all  l.ov        i<l  t I^o^^^ 

n;:;e;h:  J  inT'  "^  ^'^"  ^-^^  --  ''-^^^  ^  »-'>- 

<-"t  titpnant  m  a  circus  procession 

z:p^£z::  :ss:i::ss  -  -  -  ■» 

Aobody  seemed  to  be  going  anywhere,  vet  thev  all  lonf 
"-vmg    except  some  very  tirei-looking  m       \v^  o     a 
on  the  benches  in  the  little  park. 

I  asked  Tom  what  so  many  fat  soldiers  were  doino-  in 
town  that  day,  but  he  said-  "\Vh,-     '  ^ 

They  are  polfcemen  ''  '' '  "'^'  '''  "^^  ^^^^''-- 

I  watched  them  with  great  interest      Tu..    r  t   • 

83 


iff 


J! 

hi" 

III' 


IP 


84 


MY  FRIEND  BILL. 


I* 
I 


u 


i 


iii 


Ir 


old  at  the  man  who  pushed  the  wagon  for  them,  and 
"  ake  h.m  move  to  the  other  side  of  the  road,  where  an- 
other  polieeman  stood  whirhng  his  club  and  waiting  for 
Iiim  to  come.  ** 

Tom  pointed  out  to  me  a  dark,  fierce-looking  man,  who 

lie  saKl  had  been  a  bandit  before  he  came  here  from  Italy^ 

1  had  often  read  of  those  desperate  men  and  felt  like 

movmg  oft  from  where  we  stood,  as  he  came  over  from 

lie  other  side  of  the  way,  not  that  I  was  at  all  afraid  of 

imi,  but,  then,  I  just  felt  that  it  would  be  safer  to  be  on 

the  further  side  of  the  little  park,  but  Tom  said  that  there 

was  no  mimediate  danger,  so  we  remained. 

He  had  scarcely  located  his  little  wagon  of  fruit  when 
a  policeman,  who  seemed  to  be  expecting  him,  reached 
down  and  took  the  largest  apple  off  the  pile.  I  trembled 
for  that  officer,  for  I  knew  there  would  be  trouble^and 
here  was-but  not  for  the  policeman.  Instantly  he  had 
taken  the  fruit  the  ex-bandit  said,  fierce-like,  as  he 
straightened  up  to  his  full  height:  "Xoa  tnka  da  Apt- 
1  Iiat  policeman,  who  had  before  seemed  so  lacking  in 
ammation.  was  instantly  a  whirlwind  of  action  He 
rained  blows  on  the  bandit's  head  and  was  soon  leading 
luni  oft  to  the  station.  ^ 

The  wagon  was  overturned  and  the  small  boys  gathered 
lip  the  apples  and  were  making  off  with  them,  while  other 
I'oJicenien  looked  on  smiling. 

Tom  and  I  followed  the  brave  officer  and  the  desperate 
bandit,  to  see  what  was  to  be  done  with  him-the  bandit 

He  was  taken  before  the  judge,  who  wanted  to  know, 
^^hat  IS  the  charge?"  Rough  like,  ''Mea  maka  no 
charge,  judge.  He  noa  aska  de  price.  He  just  taka  da 
ap!    said  the  now  thoroughly  excited  bandit 

"Keep  still !     Officer,  what  is  the  charge  ?" 


tlicy  would 
tliem,  and 
where  an- 

vaiting  for 

nian,  who, 
:rom  Italy, 
d  felt  like 
over  from 
[  afraid  of 
I'  to  be  on 
that  there 

riiit  when 
I,  reached 

trembled 
•ible — and 
ly  he  had 
<e,  as  he 

da  Ap !" 
icking-  in 
ion.  He 
1  leading 


iMV   FRIEND   BILL. 


85 


^.u"^::'^^^^^   '-'''  '-^''^'^  ^'-  ^^'^-^  ov  the 

The  judge  looked  at  the  battered  up  Italian  and  came 

o  the  same  conclusion  that  I  had  reached,  that  it  wo    d 

take  lum  at  least  a  month  to  get  over  his'bruil;:;::t 

"Thirty  days!       Text!" 
,    I  was  greatly  s„rprise,I  wl,e„  Tot,,  tc.kl  ,„c  that   the 
J";l?e  ,a,l  set  tl,e  han.lit  to  prison  for  a  „,„„,h. 
What  for?"  r  asked. 
"I  <lo„'t  k„ow,"  said  Tom;  "l,„t  that  is  the  way  the 
lau-  ,s  ad„,„„s,ered  here,  if  tl,e  prisoner  l,e  a  poor    evil 

mamed  at  home  and  kept  at  his  i,an,litin{r  rather  than  to 
have  con,e  over  here  to  he  civilised,  wher^  other  fo,,^ 
ers  do  the  e,vili^ing  with  a  club.  " 


Hi 


Ml 


gathered 
lile  other 


lesperate 
bandit, 
to  know, 
naka  no 
taka  da 


U! 


hi  I 


\l 


M 


CHAPTER  XIX 
'I^or  real,  doK'unght,  frugal  polit 


country  districts." 


ics,  commend  me  to  your 


.miS'W  '\''f\'"'  »"°-  'I'^ir  affairs  to  be  run  i„  this 

~;j.:i;:;''-^'-^"^'-'^-a„disati„,,is 

wii'lf  tt  matte.'o'r'  """  ""'"'"  "^^^  ^^^>'  ""'^  ">  ''<> 
aftc     t  for  th      °^"'"""'ff  '^  "'>■•     The  politicians  look 

■I    m  surr™-    -^  "r  °'  '""  '  "'"'  ^'^'^  '""-  "="  yo"-" 

so  abrnotlv    •!;,  T'      '  "°'  ^"'^'"'"^  "^  '"•^P  '^e  subject 
so  abruptly,    that  our  country  districts  have  a  greater  car. 

tiicni  as  they  are  run  in  tlie  cities  " 

"Ah,  Ruben,  I  see  that  you  know  nothing  about  l,ow 

>our  own  nat.ve  land  is  governed.     Why.  n!y  d^l    W 

sitt^trSt::--'  -'^"-  — -  -  -h^^ . 

"Years  ago,  when  there  was  not  so  muclt  enhVhtenmenf 
as  .KHv,  your  counties  had  but  little  use  for    t     W 

cC    v  offi?       "''  '""  '""'  '"  P-«f"'   q-et.     Yo"r 
county  officers  were  usually  men  who  had  their  own  a 

Shc    Z  f"'  r'  ^"'  P^'^  ^ "°""-'  -'->  y  the 

offic    'h,  "  H     '     "^  ^"^  ^"'^  "  ^'  "'^  Present?     New 
offices  have  been  created  and  the  salaries  of  the  oifice 
holders  have  grown  in  proportion  as  the  prices  o  The  land 
nd  .ts  products  have  fallen.     Offices  which  were  once  b' 
a  na,n.  are  now  held  by  men  who,  though  thercoS 

86 


■f 


i 


-is 


JIV   rullCXD   HILL. 


87 


c  to  your 

in  in  tliis 
at  in  his 

le  to  da 
ans  look- 
sll  you.'* 
subject 
Iter  care 
manage 

►ut  liow 
ar  boy, 
o  these  • 

enment 
Your 
Your 
wn  af- 
by  the 
New 
office- 
le  land 
ice  but 
could 
6 


"ak.  In,e  a  ,,„„r  hv.nj.  ontsi,!,.,  arc  gr„„  i,,^;  rid,  a.  ,nc 
t-MK-ns.  „f  v,mr  patient  fanncTs.  Su.nc  cunttrv  lawyer 
»hu  hncLs  existence  a  serious  pr..l,le„,,  uiil  jje't  hiin'-elf 
sent  as  a  representative  or  Asseinhlyinan  to  v.Hir  law- 
niakn,,.  ha  Is.  and  tliere,  I,v  a  series  of  •loK-rollin,-,-  .vi,, 
lia  e  the  salary  of  sotne  county  office  raised,  or.  f„r  that 
"latter,  have  a  new  office  created.  an<l  at  tiie  en.l  of  Ins 
tern,  come  honte  and  get  himself  electe,!  to  that  ,>ffice 

He  will  thereafter  ho  known  as  •Honorahle,'  a  word 
more  often  </,.honore<l  hy  the  holder  than  any  other  in  the 
English  language. 

••!  have  ill  min<l,  Ruhen,  a  certain  county  whose  poli- 

tcians,  1«1  by  one  of  tiie  above-mentioned  ■Ilonorahles  ' 

liave  reache,!  such  a  <legree  of  perfection  that,  if  it  were- 

not  so  serious,  it  would  be  a  most  humorous  subject  for 

a  comic  play,  or  even  opera  bouffe. 

"If  I  were  gifted  in  that  line  [  would  be  tempted  to 
write  such  a  play.  1  <■  ■  10 

"Just  think  of  the  various  acts  that  could  be  worked  in  > 
not  least  among  which  ^^ould  be  the  law  that  the  county 

Honorable  had  'log-rolled'  through,  whore  all  'knigh,; 
of  the  road  were  to  be  arrested  by  the  constables,  taken 
before  the  justice  of  the  peace,  who  must  in  turn  con.mit 

Iioni  to  the  county  i-l,  where  the  sheriff  lK>ar,ls  them  at 
a  \»S  profit  to  himseu.     The  'knights'  fron,  all  surroun.l- 

ollTTn^^?'  """'"'''^  '°  '^""'  "^"'Si.ts  and  their 
ot1^.o-holders)-know  of  this.  aiKl  when  cokl  weather  sets 
".  come  in  to  bo  'arrostod.'  get  their  winter's  Iwar.l  free 
and  go  out  m  the  spring  in  fine  condition.  The  poor  little 
county  pays  all  expenses  and  the  office-holders  become  the 
wealthy  men'  of  the  district. 

"Here  would  be  so„,e  of  the  acts  an.l  scenes  that  could 
ue  put  uito  .such  a  pl.qv- 

"The  caucus  of  leaders;  the  primary  for  nominations; 


m 


i      ! 

/  i   1 


m 


\'\  m 


S 


88 


MV    i'RIKND    HILL. 


Vfi 


i 


¥ 


tho  patriotic  speeches  before  election,  in  nhich  the  ^Hfted 
orators  could  draw  pictures  of  how  tlie  country  would  he 
nnned  ,f  Sam  Wi^r^ins  were  not  elected  as  constable,  in- 
stead ot  I>hil  jink-ins;  or  the  scene  in  the  cross-roads 
grocery  sto.-e.  where  the  adherents  of  different  factions 
hght  over  the  fine  points  of  their  several  candidates;  and 
then,  after  the  election  returns  are  all  in  and  the  country 
IS  saved  or  'ruined'  (to  be  determined  from  which  side 
you  view  It),  the  successful  candidates  meet  to  arrange 
their  plan  of  attack  on  the  public  treasury  " 

"Hurray !  hurray  !    Go  on,  Tom.     I'll  be  the  'conjrre^a- 
tion.         I  uas  getting  enthusiastic  as  he  laid  out  the  plot 

^n,  .    ,^.  ":'   ^''''"''  ''  '''''  '''^^  I'^^^'^  •"  the  sheriff's  office, 
ihis  high  official  calls  the  roll  and  finds  all  present     He 
being  the  dean  of  the  officers,  takes  the  chair  and  gives  in- 
structions   to    the   newly   elected.      IJe   addresses    those 
having  supen-ision:     •liere,  men,  start  work  at  once  in 
every  section  of  the  county,  that  you  may  put  in  as  manv 
clan's  this  year  as  possible.     Place  as  few  men  on  each 
bridge  or  road  as  can  well  be.  that  the  time  may  be  ex- 
tended for  the  completion  of  the  work,  lest  it  cost  the 
people  too  small  a  sum.     Go  at  once  and  lose  no  time   as 
winter  will  soon  be  upon  you.'     Exit  those  having  super- 
vision. ^      ^ 

"Sheriff  continues:  'Here.  Keei>er  of  the  Keys' 
Where  is  that  dolt?  Ah,  there  you  are.  How  many 
boarders  have  we  in  the  Safe?' 

"Keeper:   Ten,  me  lord!' 

''Sheriff:  'Ten!  Only  ten,  and  winter  so  nearly  utx)n 
us!  Where  are  my  Procurers  of  the  Road  Knights? 
oend  them  in ! 

"Enter  six  Procurers  trembling. 

^"Sheriff:   'You  villains,  why  this  emptiness?' 

'Spokesman  for  Procurers  •    ' 'T'^-  ■^Ua  h--*-  •      i. 

.-    Liufr.s.       12;:,  tiie  iieat,  me  lord! 


li' 


MY   FKIE.ND  UILL 


89 


.'I 


amUl  l)c 
al>lc,  iii- 
ss-roatls 
factions 
cs;  and 
country 
icli  side 
arrange 

i^rcpra- 
lic  plot, 
i  ofifice. 
It.    He 
ivcs  in- 
those 
Mice  in 
5  many 
n  each 
be  ex- 
>st  tlie 
me,  as 
super- 
Keys  ! 
many 


upon 
ghts  ? 


f 


lord! 


The  Knights  refuse  to  come  into  the  county  until  the 
winter  hath  set  in  cold.  Wo  have  abundant  promise 
from  them  that  when  the  snow  doth  lly  that  they  will 
come  into  the  county.  So  many  i)ri>mises  have  we,  me 
lord,  methinks  you  must  needs  enlarj^a*  the  v^afe.' 

"The  Sheriff,  in  fine  humor,  bids  them  (lei)art,  each  to 
Iiis  county,  to  work  up  the  winter  business.  Exit  IVt>- 
curers.  Sheriff  gives  instructions  to  the  assembled  Con- 
stables, Justices  of  the  Peace  and  other  ot^cers,  and  the 
curtain  is  rung  down. 

*  *  ****** 

"The  Constables  have  given  up  their  trades  or  (Hher 
occupations  for  the  more  lucrative  one  of  holding  office, 
and  have  purchased  each  a  horse  and  carriage— on  time;' 
the  Justices  have  each  fitted  up  an  office;  the  Sheriff  has 
had  partitions  put  into  the  larger  rooms  of  his  'Safe,'  and 
all  are  ready  for  the  next  scene. 

"Act  2,  Scene  2.  Same  as  prexreding.  Sheriff's  office. 
Fme,  old-fashioned  fire-place  piled  full  of  burning  wood ; 
table  in  centre,  on  which  are  seen  boxes  of  cigars  and 
bottles.  Wind  blowing  a  gale  outside,  with  snow  beating 
against  the  window. 

"Enter  Keeper  of  the  Keys,  left  centre. 
"Keeper:    'Sam  Wiggins  is  at  the  door,  me  lord,  with 
a  carriageload  of  Knights.' 
"Sheriff:   'Bid  him  enter.' 

"Enter    Sam    Wiggins:      'Cold  night,  me  lord,  to  l>e 
abroad.' 

I^Sheriff:   'From  whence  the  load  of  Knights.  Sam?' 
"Sam:    'From  the  very  edge  of  the  countv,  me  lord! 

These  Knights  do  grow  full  proud  and  refuse  to  walk. 

We  must  needs  drive  for  them !' 

"Sheriff:    'Wherefore  and  why  this  complaint,   when 

the  county  pays  the  mileage?    What  is  the  numl>er?' 


1!* 


f  ! 


r*l 


J  IS 


lift 

(ft 


90 


MV   FRIEND   HILL. 


•<«« 


•J^am:    '.Six.  an,!  I„sty  fdl„„-.s  tho-  a,-.,  all  fn„n  the 
a.l,yn,„K  c,„„u, ,  ulur.  .Iktc  is  nuui,  u-,x.l  ,0  saw   1  ,! 

■•Sh.riir:  The  Imur  Rravvs  late,  Sam.  Awav  an,l  to 
the  Mruke  ..f  twelve,  that  1  „,ay  ,late  their  arrival  from 
^^^ 'jSa,,,  lingers,  as  l,is  eye  falls  „i»„  the  bottles  on  the 

."of"'.'J  'Ti'  "  ~'''  "'«'"•  ""■  '"■••I-'    (Shiverinff.) 

to^TthetiV''''''"'"""*'''"'^'''''"'^'"^'''^     1^-^' 

"SlieritY:    'Will  voii  he  nff?'     /d;  i 

wiiKlow.)  •  ^'^"''  •"""'  «"<■■»  'o  'l>e 

Y    ,  „,e  lord,  but  nu-  spirits  run  low  an,l  [  w.h.M  take 
''':,""-'.r"?  "f  "'^  ''^'•'  "'«'  ''""»  so  cheery.' 

gone.  ( btill  looking  out  of  the  window,  while  Sam  nnts 
.".o  the  pocket  of  his  great  coat  two  of  the  bottU.  ' 
Sam :  Yes,  me  lord !'  Exit. 
"Scene  3.  An  honr  later.  B„t,  R„|,e„,  as  this  is  not  a 
very  n,ce  'scene,'  I  will  leave  it  ot,t.  San,  has  r  tr^ld 
w,th  two  very  entpty  bottles,  but  with  six  Insty  Knilts 
m  cinne  the  other  condition.  ^  '^"iglits 

re,2ion"of'^'"";'  ""■"  "^  "''  ''''''  "■°"'''  ''^  "'"-^l'  of  a 
Sl^r iff.  .Q  J  f  '■'*'™"*^-  '"  "'^'"  •™"  ^™"'<1  note  the 
Shenffs    Safe,'  very  n,.,ch  crow<ied,  but  yon  wonld  see 

few  chanj,e,s,  as  when  a  'iK^arder'  wonld  be  discharg  d  1  e 
won  d  s,mply  needs  co  <lown  to  see  Sam  Wigrinf  vh^ 
wonhl  forthwith  'rearrest'  him.  take  bin,  befoff  the  )  - 
t.ce,  who,  as  was  his  duty,  wonld  commit  hin,  fn.  .JlL 


MV   A'KIKNU   BILL. 


91 


term,  and  so  wuiild  run  tlio  jilay  till  .^l)rinJ^^ 

Vou  vvuiild  sec  Sam  a  much  lK'ttcr-(lrcsc<l  nmii,  aiul  lie 
nught  tell  you  that  he  ha.l  alrea.ly  paid  fur  his  horse  and 
carna^a^  as  each  arrest  means  a  fee  and  mileage  for  'car- 
nage hire,'  patient  farmers  payin-  all  hills.  Sam  miKlit. 
however,  not  deij^ni  to  notice  ycni,  as  he  is  now  a  man  of 
nuich  importance. 

"When  the  end  of  the  year  had  conic  around,  vou  mijrlit 
see  gathered  the  same  county   ofHcers— verv   much    im- 
prove<l  in  appearance  since  doffing  the  old  and  puttin^^  on 
the  new  suits  given  them  by  the  tailor  Nv  ho  had  j.^(jtten  the 
contract  at  a  paying  figure  for  clothing  the  'county  p(K)r.' 
"If  you  would  come  to  watch  this  scene  you  would  see 
again  me  lord,  the  h'gh  Sheriff,  several  thousand  dollars 
richer  and  correspondingly  prominent.     When    you    had 
listened  to  the  report  of  the  Treasurer  and  heard  the  Sher- 
itf  commend  those  who  had  had  supervision  of  the  county 
you  would  conclude  that  they  had  followed  his  -nstruc- 
tions  to  the  letter,  but  you  would  no  doubt  wonder  where 
in  one  po<.r  little  county,  they  had  found  so  many  roads 
and  bridges  to  look  after. 

"If  you  should  want  to  know  how  well  these  oflficer«i 
had  succ  eded  in  spending  the  money  of  the  hard-working 
tarmers,  all  you  need  do  would  be  to  compare  the  reports 
with  other  counties,  and  you  would  note  a  vast  difference 
in  the  expenditures." 

"But,  Tom,  what  sort  of  people  are  those  of  this  county 
who  would  allow  their  affairs  to  be  so  conducted?"  I 
asked  in  wonderment. 

"Oh.  they  are  a  fine  enough  people,  but  their  politicians 
have  worked  so  smoothly  along  for  years  that  they  really 
believe  that  the  country  would  go  to  ruin  if  they  did  not 
send  these  same  men  right  back  into  office,  simply  because 
tney  belong  to  'our  party,'  and  'our  party'  is  always  the 


(I 


jl 


ill 


!'f 


liiii 


I  mi 


i  I' 


92 


MY   FRIEXD   BILL. 


K  ^  § 


r 


CHAPTER   XX. 


<(  c 


^^ometimcs  everybody  would  sing.     I  joined  in  once,  and 
zvas  thinking  w/iai  a  beautiful  voice  J  had,  when  the 
man  at  my  side  stopped  short  and  looked  at  me     At 
that  moment  I  heard  myself,  and  didn't  blame  him 
I  stopped,  too." 

One  Sunday,  shortly  after  reaching  the  city,  I  went  to 
church.  I  had  never  dreamed  that  a  church  could  be  so 
hnc.  It  far  surpassed  my  conception  of  Solomon's  Tem- 
ple.    Everything  was  so  new  and  strange  to  me. 

I  had  always  loved  music,  but  I  felt  that  dav  that  I  had 
never  before  heard  music.  The  whole  end  o'f  the  house 
was  filled  with  gold  and  silver  pipes  which  reached  nearly 
to  the  ceiling,  while  a  man  sat  in  front  of  them  and  plaved 
on  an  organ.  It  looked  like  a  verv  small  instrument,  but 
oil.  the  music  that  player  could  get  out  of  it! 

Four  people  did  the  singing.     One  would  sing  until  he 

was  tired,  then  another  and  another  would  start  in  and 

Help  him.     Sometimes  they  would  all  four  sing  at  once  • 

then  it  seemed  that  the  whole  house  was  full  of  music      ' 

Aly  mind  ran  back  to  the  little  corner  in  the  ''meeting 

house    at  Highmont,  where  old  "Uncle"  Brunncr  used  to 

lead  the  singing.     He  would  often  try  to  carrv  all  parts  at 

once,  but  It  was  a  failure,  as  he  would  invariablv  run  out 

of  breath  on  the  high  notes;  but  he  would  keep' right  on 

although  you  could  only  tell  that  he  was  singing  by  si^ht 

—your  own.  *    t>    .r     s 


\lh. 


1; 


i 


93 


94 


MY  FRIEND   BILL. 


fi!  . 


liMI 


Toward  tl,e  last  so.ne  of  tl,e  yomig  people  felt  it  their 
clu^  to    elp  hi,„  to  lead,  btn  he  could'neve^  be  hid     e    to 

keep  ,t  «p  to  ther  end !"    And  he  did.     He  was  a  ^ood  nl 
man,  and  we  all  loved  hi™.     But,  then,  I  'v  at  ,  iSo  t 
the  nuisic  in  this  great  city  church 

Sometimes  everybody  would  sing.  I  joined  in  onre 
and  was  thinking  what  a  beautiful  voice  I  had  w'  Lrthe 
man  at  my  side  stopped  short  and  looked  at  me  At  that 
-n,ent  I  heard  n,yse,f.  and  didn't  blame  him     I  sfopjej 

pretrrtl '"'■'  ^"?  '"''''""■•"•>"  ^'^'"«'--'>'-    The  .ninister 
preached  the  most  eloquent  sermon  I  had  ever  heard     He 

drew  a  p,ctt,re  of  the  benighted  condition  of  the  heathen 
.n  foreign  chmes,  and  told  how  it  was  .he  duty  o    ev    " 
one  present  to  give  their  money  if  they  could  no[go  ,  ,em 
elves  to  alleviate  the  sad  condition  of  their  less  fort  na"e" 
brothers  and  sisters  in  distant  lands  witunate 

I  ioZfJ:7  'p  '"""  °"  "'^  "'"^'-"■"    Several  times 

hr  wo    d  1  '     ."■'■'■/"''  "'°'"'""'  "°-  f-  distant 
the)  would  have  to  go  to  find  a  riper  field  for  work 

H.s  sermon  was  most  aft'ecting.  Manv  ladies  'wept 
and  the  way  the  nten  threw  in  their  mon"ey,  I  was  sure 
they  were  touched,  too.  "assure 

seion^'V™"';^"'  "''  '''''^'  P^'''  °f  "^^  ^•'"^'^h  after  the 
people  would  be  anxious  to  gather  in  strangers.  I  knew 
.f  tbey  could  weep  over  son,e  poor  heathen  wdiom  tl  ey  iTad 
never  seen  and  only  knew  in  the  abstract,  that  they  Lm 
welconte  n,e,  who  had  come  in  without  anv  effort  or  tea  s 
on  the,r  part ;  but  they  didn't.  None  of  them  eve ,  no  ced 
me,  and  when  I  spoke  to  one  g,«d  ntan  whom  I  h  d  "' 
thrown  ntto  the  plate  a  large  bill  of  money,  he  looked  a" 


MY   FRIEND  BILL. 


95 


me  and  said : 
"Well   what  is  it!"  i„  a  cold  wave-like  tone  that  froze 

I  ca,i,e  away  thi„ld„g  ,l,at  New  Vorl<  congregations 
preferred  savng  the  "iis-leaf"  variety  of  heathcf  a  ,d 
even  them  at  long  range.  "taui™,  and 

When  I  told  n,y  experience  at  the  dinner  table  our 
Heathen  snnled  and  said  I  wonld  learn  n.ore  the  bnger  I 
stayed  m  New  York.  'on{,er  i 

^ail'nr',"  '"r"'"?^  '•''""■^''  "'>-^^"  "•'"-'"  I  '■■""•e  here," 
a^^d  he,    but  I  go.  frozen  out.    I  wa.s  reared  in  the  ecu  ,. 

ter;  w-  Lrltf  '"  """"■  "-  -  "^  "-^-'  ">-  - 
"At  hon,e  I  knew  everybody,  and  had  becon,e  so  used 

welcome     But,  oh,  the  change!     Sundav  after  Sumhv  I 
wen     rehguntsly.     I  even  took  a  StnulaV-schLl        ?« 
ch  dren,  tlunking  that  in  ti„,e  the  frost'n.ig  u  t,    w  ou 
of  the  hearts  of  the  good  people,  but  it  never  did     The  e 

n  fu     ""  °'''"  '°  "'°"''"  "■!'»'  would  I  a,., c. 

to  the  old  fishermen  and  net-n,akers  of  nineteen  cen  tie 
ago  should  they  chance  to  drop  in  to  listeu  to     e     x  ,  Tf 
1  .eh  they  were  the  origin.     I  eould,  in  mind    s"   tit. 

ai^  ed    r  '■  f  °"  '"'"'  ■'''■'=  ''''''  '^"i"  a..d  „,ain- 

^-itret,i;:;;ng"'^° "°  "°"'^^  '°°^  ^°™-"  - » - 

.ointtcr^crerr  Tt7  "r-^  *-^^  ^"^'  ^"^""^^ 

inside  of  one.  ^'  ^''"  >'^"-s""--e  I  was 


(  , 


r; 


;  I 


Hi 


•'  '^f 


Jrfe 


lfl< 


if 


.  I: 


■I  -I      j; 


i  i 


P      ' 

1 


96 


iMY  FRIEND  BILL. 


■•I  fimi  ,l,n,  ,1k.  cities  arc  u,ll  of  y.n.ng  n,c„  who  have 

•-ri,c  ch,,rci,cs  of  the  cities  ever  gai„  for,,,,  h„t  lose  in 
that  conhahty  that  will  draw  to  the,,,  new  life 

ifes^e;i  ;n"„'"r  "T  '""''■''-'•  '^"'"-■"'  ^^^^'  "«^^^^t  i^  "'an. 

r  s        ,.     ,    '^'"'™  °^'"'■^'"''  ''••"''^•'     "  '■'-  san,e  in- 
terest we,c  shown  ,n  try.ng-  to  hokl  yottng  n,en  who  find 

e,r  way  ,„to  the  churches,  far  ntore'goo.rwou.dtdo  e 
and  the  congregations  not  so  lacking  in  n,en 

easifr^^T^ir"''  "1  "',Tf  '"  '"'"^-  -™"    ^'^-      N""""^ 
nS tee  of^v    '        ""    '"  '"  ''"'''  congregation  a  eo™ 
n  ,  tee  o    «elcon,e,  whose  <lnty  it  wonki  be  to  see  as  far 
s  p  ss.hle  that  no  stranger  ca.ne  and  went  witho,,;  card- 
ing in  l„s  heart  a  desire  to  come  again 

•■This  committee  would  be  of  far  n,ore  real  worth  to  the 
"Pbnildmg  of  a  church  ,i,a„  all  the  n,oney  of  tl"  m  Mio 
aire  men,  ership,  who  often,  though  correct  in  ev  ry  form 
are  as  lacking  ,„  true  worship  as  an  iceberg  of  war,' th  " 

Uo  you  mean  that  every  one  who  came  should  be  made 

velcon,e.-  asked  the  prim  boarcler,  the  old  lady  vWth      e 

ct  ris,  over  there  at  the  side  table,     "How  would  we  know 

socie  y.    They  might  not  be  proper  people." 

"Doei'it  folio'"'-;',"  ""!'■"'  '"'  ''^^"■^"'  "''"'  ^  <!""'-"  ^ 

;:^f(vL''did^t 

"In  my  country  home,  tlie  poor  old  widow  who  lives  in 

he  cab,n  on  the  mountain  side  sits  beside  the  be«t  Tope 

n  ot,r  commun,ty,  who,  in  their  simple  worship  ^v  r 

ask  ,f  It  IS  the  'correct  form.'  "  ^' 

"What   church   did   yon   attend,    Ruben?"   some   one 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


97 


asked. 

"I  don't  know  the  name  of  it,"  said  I.  "but  it  is  that  one 
you  know,  that  has  the  undertaker's  si-n  out  on  the  front.'' 
There  was  nothing  humorous  in  mv  answer,  yet  every- 
body alxDut  the  table  laughed. 


f.h 


M 


f'l 

X't 

^• 


■i* 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

'She  smootJicd  niv  clicrh  -cnth  u        7    ;, 

and  said  in  /  .  ''  '^'''^^y  ^'^'^^  ^'^^^ds, 

and  said  m  the  sz^eetest  child  voiee  I  had  ever  heard 

On,  poor   mister,   are  yoit   hnrted   mueh/  iTso 
sorry  I  nind  across  the  street:  " 

One  afternoon,  wliile  7  u-nc  i- 1-;., 

Fifth    avennp     .  ,  "^  "'>^  """^^  ^^'alk  on 

■Luui    avenue,    always     00k  no-    for  \\\\\    r        ^11, 

two  or  three  blocks  awfv      r  f        commotion 

was  horrifierl    n  V'        ,     ""''''  '"  ^^^"  ^^^^^^^'O"  and 

"rtb  iiornnecl  to  see  a  horse  hitpIiAri  f^  ^ 

"runnine-  off  '•     H„  ^  grocer's  wagon 

wasT  frlin  "■"'  '""""f^  "el^t  '°*"d  where  I 

was  Stan d,„g,  comnig-,  as  we  used  to  say,  '•like  tlie  wind  " 

Everybody  ran  for  the  honsesteps,  while  the  ca  riars  in 
the  road  gave  Inm  a  wide  berth  "mages  in 

scared  until  after  the  danger  is  pa  J   At   h    I  "'T '  ^'' 
.ny  senses  I  usnaily  have^hen,  'Z.,  nt         ""'^  '  ""' 

myself,  as  one  of  mv  ong  l  "  ''"  LT  "  '°"""^*^ 
broken  just  below  the  ^-nel't  tS'  o'  t^rp-teH 
found  what  had  happened  to  me.     When  I  saw  that  the 

98 


AIV  FKIHXD   lilLL. 


99 


■  tie  «irl  „a.  sale  1  did,,-,  ,„i,ul  „„■  o«„  lu,n,  esp.vi-.llv 
"I'cn  slH-  s,nooU,ccl  „,y  cheek  ui,l,  her  clu.hhy   i.tli  un  , 
and  saul  „,  the  sweetest  child  voice  I  had  ever'he  Qh 

poor  m.ster,  are  yo„  lu.rted  ?     I  is  so  sorrv  I     nt',    ' 
tlic  street  "  =>^ir\  i  lun  cl  across 

more  d,'     / L'  "  Ttf  '°  ■-'""  °"'  "'^  =■"••  "''-■'>  ^  --l^.l 
'I'urc  tnan  I  needed  their  interest 

ast°am-t'°i' "'ft-"'""  ''*■""  ''"  ""^'"•'''  ---  f°^  ""-■ 
car  s    ■  ,        7""  ""■'"  «"^''=  ""•■  "■^■"-  ^■■■"■'Is  or  the 

"e      Vork'dt    ••":'•,  .''"?  "'"'  "•'■'■'  ■•"'^-  '^^•-  '-v>-  "> 

.«it,r„;;;:.'i";;;,r'  ;',:;:>;r  ~'  ""■  » 

^uit.    \\  e  11  collect  and  give  you  half." 

And  this  was  Xew  York-  rii^■\    "t  ^.  i 
^,-;^  1   •  '^>v    lu.K  cit\  !       Leeches,  oaras  fp«;  "  T 

n       ,„  anger,  "do  yot,  s„„pose  I  cotdd  tak    mo    If  J 
.»;.'  after  the  ,u,„,„i„,  shock  hTd   'o;,;:;  ''"""'"'  '" 

."■0 ':;;™:o:;;t:o':f  ''-^'-^  ^^"'  --  ^""  -■''•'  ^^ 

bnt  were  pretty  surrth.";  it  Js  '   """  '"'  "'-"  ^'^«-•"• 
vo.!;::  docto"'  '  "■"  """^  "«^'"  ^  ■-'■  "-•  ^  --  not  a 


11 


ti 

'si 

II 


h  ;; 


m 


'I 


5  . 


"I  H 


mi 


f  I-  !l 


lti  '■ 


ICX) 


iMV   FRIEND   BILL. 


|!      !      ' 


■'    ey  took  nic  to  a  fine  hospital  just  west  of  the  avenue 
carried  me  upstairs  by  means  of  a  little  movable  room' 
called  an  elevator,  and  laid  me  on  one  of  a  lono-  row  of 
pretty  little  white  eots. 

I'he  doct(M-s.  when  they  learned  how  it  had  occurred 
treated  me  very  kindly,  and  in  a  short  time  had  mv  leg 
set,  and  left  me  feeling  quite  comfortable. 

It  could  not  have  been  two  hours  after  the  accident 
when  a  youn-  man  came  hurriedly  into  the  bi-  room  and 
asked:  "Where  is  he?  Where  is  he?"  And  when  I  was 
pointed  out  by  tlie  nurse,  he  came  with  extended  hand 
and  with  such  a  cordial  smile  that  I  (,uite  foroot  the  pain 
lor  the  moment. 

"My  dear  friend."  as  I  must  call  vou.  'Sve  owe  vou  a 
thousand  thanks.  It  was  my  little  sister  whose  life  vou 
saved  at  the  risk  of  your  own."  Then  turning  to  the  doc- 
tor who  was  with  him:  "Come,  place  this  youn^  man  in 
the  best  room  you  have  in  the  hospital,  and  spar;  nothing 
for  his  comfort.  ^ 

"I  cannot  express  what  we  feel  toward  vou  Helen 
would  surely  have  been  killed  had  you  not  risked  vour  life 
tor  her.  If  yon  but  knew  the  bri8;ht  little  sunbeam'that  she 
IS,  you  could  then  know  the;  full  weig-ht  of  gratitude  we 
owe  to  you.  But  I  will  not  talk  too  lono-  now.  I  will 
come  again  to-morrow. 

"Js  there  any  message  you  uould  have  me  send  to  vour 
lamily?' 

"No."  said  I,  "my  family  must  not  know  of  mv  acci- 
dent It  would  terribly  frighten  them  and  would' do  no 
S-ood.  I  would,  however,  like  if  you  would  write  to  my 
landlady.  ^ 

The  nurse  went  for  paper  and  pen.  and  I  told  him  to 
send  tiie  following- note: 

"My  Dkar  Madam  :    I  am  very  sorry,  but  I  find  I  will 


MV    I'KIEXD    HILL. 


lol 


the  avenue, 
val)le  room 
Jiig-  row  of 

1  occurred, 
lad  niy  leg 

le  accident 
■  room  and 
hen  I  was 
ided  liand 
)t  the  j)ain 

Dwe  yon  a 
e  Hfe  yon 

0  the  (loc- 
ig"  man  in 
■e  nothing 

1.  Helen 
your  life 
n  that  she 
titnde  we 
:.     I  will 

d  to  your 

my  acci- 
Id  do  no 
te  to  my 

1  him  to 
id  I  will 


he  compelled  to  chani;e  my  hoarding  place  for  a  while; 
not  that  I  am  displeased  with  your  house,  hut  circum- 
stances cause  this  change. 

''Kindly  take  care  oi  my  carpet-sack  and  niv  umhrella." 
The  young  man  smiled  and  said:     •'The  landladv  will 
think  you  are  spending  a  few  days  with  the  *cai)tain  of 
the  i)recinct.'  " 

The  Statesman  told  me,  when  I  got  well,  that  tliat  was 
what  they  did  think,  especially  the  Heathen,  who  said  : 

"I  am  not  surprised.  I  thought  he  was  that  kind!" 
r.ut  when  they  saw  it  in  the  pai)ers.  writteji  up  foolish 
hke.  just  as  though  I  was  a  real  hero,  even  the  Heathen 
remarked  : 

"U'ell.  you  can't  always  tell!" 

As  the  young  man  left  me  he  gave  me  his  card : 

Edward  S.  DkHkhtiskun'. 

Fifth  Avenue. 

"We  will  soon  have  you  out  again,"  and  went,  as  he 
came,  with  a  smile. 

1  had  never  met  so  fine  a  young  man  as  he.  Tall,  y,  t 
so  well  proportioned  that  his  six  feet  two  stature  seenied 
Jiist  right.  He  had  hrown  hair  and  eves  and  a  ruddy 
color  that  indicated  great  vigor. 

The  room  into  which  T  was  removed  was  large,  scrupu- 
lously clean  and   with   ju>t    the    nccessarv    furnishings 
Aotlnng  whatever  of  a  gloomv  character,  as  one  never 
havmg  1)een  inside  of  a  hospital  would  expect,  from  the 
nature  of  the  place,  to  find. 

And  the  nurse.  W'ell,  1  am  not  going  to  descrihe  her 
further  than  to  say  that  she  was  the  kind  of  which  thcv 
make  angels.  She  all  but  made  me  forget  that  I  was 
hurt,  and  to  almost  hope  that  mine  would  he  a  lingerinp- 
case.     Tt  was  not  what  she  said,  for  she  spoke  verv  little' 


I.* 

;•  »■ 

fl 

ill! 


m 


i4 


■Hi 


life  i    . 


P.S.. 


4 


.1     Ji 


M:  ■      9 


i 


•     H     f    "ft 

:  If 


I  ■ 


102 


MV   FKli^XD   iJiLL. 


"•■ops  to  keep  <lo„n  T  fever  '  '" ''"'"'""■^'-"•f?  t"'^' 

of  all  noble  c,ll,„„,io;; ,         "'''  "°'  '""  f^'^''  "''■" 
that  of  the  ,„,      *■    ":    '^"•"■•'''  "one  could  co.npa.e  „;.|, 

casts  beln-n.^eu"    ,.■;''',  ""  '"""''  =""'  '''"  "'-^"^-^ 
fellow-bei„ss,  ^    '"-    •""'  '"terings  of  her 

<""  or  :;■"  ,!;.,i,f' ::,;;,"■'"•'■'■•''  ■™""'^  ■•'-■  -th  no  c,„. 

I  l.ac,  lea,.,,;.,      '     ;■        ;,:^;7-^-  '■'"^  ^-le  fro„,  .hat 

:]S:":=;ir;:f:iiiS:: 


ii  I J  : 


vcrythinjTr, 
tcring-  the 
t  ft'el  t'vit 
pare  witli 
)Ic'asures; 
f  woniati, 
:s  of  her 

li  no  cul- 
oni  what 
le  nioiin- 
^ical  h'fe 
nan  was 


l.J?. 


ch  th 


cv 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

"O/i,  the  kiss  of  a  child!    Hozv  it  thrills!"  said  I 
i  cs/  saidlUward;  -and  the  older  the  ehild  the  greater 
llic  thrill,  especially  if  a  girl  child!" 

It  was  with  peat  pleasure  that  I  looked  forward  next 
aay  to  iidward  s  promised  visit. 

The  pleasure  of  his  coming  was  even  greater  than  I  iiad 
hoped  for,  as  he  brought  Helen  with  him. 

"She  would  come  with  me,"  said  Kdward. 

'Ves  dear  Mister  Kuben;  and  see  the  tlowers  I  bringed 
you  Mamma  says  if  I  am  very,  very  good  I  may  come 
ottcn.^  Do  you  want  me  to  come  often.  Mister  Ruben' 

\ZT^  ^"  '^'"  '''•''•  '^^^"^"^  ^^'-^"^^  ^^^^-^^vs  savs  h; 
iiKes  to  have  me  come  to  see  him." 

w.Mi^r^'V^;^'"''  "^^^^^"'  ^^'^^  "'"'^  "^^^  ^^^^  so  m"ch.  You 
wdtjre  Ruben,  and  he  will  not  want  you  to  come  anv 
more.      Ihen  to  me  Edward  turned  and  said-   "She  is  a 

Wall-  ''"'  ''/''  f  ?•  ''-'''''  '  «^^-^  '^^^  '-^-  'Tousin 
U  alhe,   as  she  calls  him,  is  one  of  the  young  men  in  the 

office,  who  always  'makes'  over  her  a  good  deal  " 

I  just  couldn't  help  saying.   ''You  little  angel,  vou  can 
never,  never  come  too  often  to  please  me  " 

hadn  t  been  for  you  I  wotdd  be  one  by  now,  though  Say 
M  ster  Ruben,  can  angels  come  back  when  thev  go  away  P 
I  wouldn  t  want  to  go  away  ever  if  I  couldn't^Le  back 
to  see  mamma  and  papa,  and  Beatrice  and  Edward,  and- 

ro3 


;  f 


I 

i    ' 

if 


H 


■fl 


i|ii 


I  m 


104 


Hi 


Pi 


w'    ■ 

fer 


iH 


J.!    i 


III  i 


t :  S: 


I 


•MV   FKIEND  BILL. 


her  .«cct,  ch,l.l,sl,  way  till  1  was  «il,l  with  jov,  for  I  ^„ 
nfver  hapiMcT  tl,a„  1  a,„  wi.l,  >■ r.,,  an,,,,,'!  L.o 

1     '     ■\^",'T'-      ""^'  "'^T   l>reuy   .loliie.  like   I 

Eve  ;!:  'h  ,  '"'  '""  '"^'^  ''"'^-  ■^■^"••^•^'  '^••'"""'^  '""d 
i-vtliiie  May,  who  were  near  her  age 

lip,  bit  can  |,nt  on  .Ircsses  they  do  n.,t  have  to  be  careful 
0  ,  ami  can  ,^ay  ,n  a  l.eau.ifnl  little  brook  that  runs  near 
the  louse.  Ibey  can  n,ake  n.ud  pies  and  can  even  go 
ba  efoot    ,„  warn,  weather.     They  |,ave  real  rag  dolfs 

play  «  th.  an<l  two  very  big  black  ,logs.  Carlo  and  Hrntus 

and  .be  h,g  dogs  run,  oh,  so  fast,  to  get  it  and  bring  it 
lack,  ,,„d  almost  ask  to  have  it  thrown  again      The  chil 
re,,  can  hitch  Carlo  and  IVutus  loa  little^wagon  a    ,  r    e 
to  the  v.llage  store  for  ea„,ly.     And  Helen,  their  nurse 
never  says  'Don't  f  for  they  bave  no  nurse." 

Oh.  Mister  Ruben,  do  they  live    in    beaven?     That 
ou^Kls  just  hke  ,t!     I  „ever,  never  can  do  anything  like 
liat.         alway.s  must  be  dressed  up,  and  nurse  is  al'avs 
sav„,g  'Don  t!  Don't !-I  never  can  do  anv.hing  I  want 

i.d«a,d.  and  a    bro-.k    .,.  ,  ^ly  in,  and  okl  clothes    and 
cous,ns    and  bi,g  black  dogs  like  Carlo  and  Brut,;. 

but  :ittord""''"'^''-^-''°-^''^-'''^>- "-•-■- '-''"^ 
"Yes,  yes,  Helen.     We  must  not  stay  too  long.     The 


MY   FklEXD    BILL. 


105 


nuriif  said  tli.-'*  Ihihcn  slioiild  not  talk  too  tniich." 

"He  don't  I.  V  to  talk  too  nnirli  I  won't  let  him.  IX) 
1.  M)^t,T  kubcn?  Now  \vc  are  ^^)ing.  but  I  will  omiic 
fjack  aj^^aiii  ever  sin^de  time  niamnia  will  let  inc.  Say, 
misiii,  may  I  kiss  you  pccxxi-by  ?  Sister  licatricc  says 
only  the  little  wee  i^irls  may  kiss  the  hi^  yonn.t;-  men,  hut 
I  saw  her  kiss  Tousni  W'.illie  one  day,  an«l  slie  is  a  way, 
way  big  girl— so  big."  And  her  little  nands  were  held 
away  up. 

"Oh.  the  kiss  of  a  child  !    How  it  thrills !"  .     1  f. 

"Yes."  said  Edward.  "And  the  older  tlk  rhihl  the 
greater  the  thrill,  es[M?eiaIly  if  a  girl  child  He  was  so 
cheery  that  day. 


I, 


ii 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

think  ofz  B.r  w,;;T,;!rr"  ^^"^ '  --'^  -^  '-^ 

ever  find  L  in  tl  s  :«',:""  r'^    '""■     '''°"'^  ' 
"ot  return  for  nfonths  =omevvl,ere  and  wonid 

con,c  „on,e  at  once,  if  Z  t  n ^'fin     P.H'  '^'  '""^^ 
afraid  voii  will  get  lost'  '       '''^  '^'"^  ^° 

-,JH-  the  tin,e  we  d!:,  ,rr1"°"  °'  ""  ^^"""^  ""-"d  was 

W'liat  ina<le  matters  ivorse   all  tl,^  ..i  i 
a.Kl  lone  widows  for  nn'les  amid  Hi        '""*"  '"'"^^ 
mother,  'to  cheer  lier  ,T'.  T      "'•?'""°"t  came  to  see 

tell  her  abom  yo  L  ^  "it',"'';''  ""''  ""^"  ''^>"^"  ^° 
-;cK-ed  city  an]  had  n^er  tn  he'  rHf  f  •'"'  ?r ' 
When  they  were  reirlv  fn  o-  f      ^  ''"^'"-     ^^en, 


quite    forgot    ^^hat   the    word 


io6 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


107 


meant,  they  would  begin  all  over  again.  They  would 
•settle'  down  and  say:  'But  then,  Mary,  vou  nuist  not  give 
up  hope.  Ruben  may  not  be  real  bright,  yet  he  will  find 
his  way.' 

''If  there  were  more  than  one— and  you  know,  Ruben, 
the  country  widow  is  gregarious  and  seldom  travels  ex- 
cept m  pairs— they  would  sit  out  the  afternoon,  startino-  in 
v.':th  you  as  'the  lost  boy'  and  ending  up  with  how  their 
own  dear  companions  had  'suffered  toward  the  last' 
each  one  trying  to  outdo  the  other  in  the  graphic  recital  ' 
"Oh,  Ruben,  that  was  a  cheerful  thne,  I  assure  vou' 
iMit  ]  never  want  them  to  think  of  vou  as  'lost'  again 

"If  you  do  get  lost,  don't  say  a  word  about  it,  as'  I  never 
want  the  old  maiden  ladies  and  lone  widows  to  hear  of  it. 
J  hey  might  again  come  to  'cheer  us  up.' 

"The  only  thing  that  could  stop  tlie  doleful  recital 
when  they  once  got  fairly  under  ^vav  was  for  some  'old 
maid  to  say  that  a  'certain  widouer'  had  called  to  see  her 
Sunday  night.'  At  that  the  'dearly  departed'  ailments 
and  all  were  forgotten  and  merged  into  the  one  subject 
for  the  moment,  'that  certain  widower.' 

"You  say,  Ruben,  that  New  York  is  so  large  that  you 
can  stand  at  one  end  and  cannot  see  the  other!  You  do 
not  mean  to  tell  me  that  there  are  houses  all  the  wav   do 

"Vou  had  better  come  home  at  once,  Ruben.  Oh  if 
anything  should  happen  to  you.  or  vou  should  get  sick » 
1  don  t  dare  let  my  mind  dwell  on  it." 

And  this  was  the  situation  when  the  "anvthing  hap- 
pened    to  me.     Fortunately,  I  had  written  the  morning 
of  the  accident  and  said  that  T  had  a  number  of  good 
triends  who  had  promised  to  see  that  T  did  not  get  "lost  " 
1  did  not  need  to  write  until  I  had  a  replv  to  mv  letter 


/  • 


iff 


ill 


I  ^^! 


irl 


ill  ' 


.»>         l! 


1 08 


MY  FRIEND   BILL. 


when,  by  that  time,  I  hoped  to  be  able  to  write   if  but  a 

I  did  not  think-  it  wise,  in  anv  event,  to  tell  of  n,v  icei 
<lent.  as,  should  the  oKl  maiden  ladies  or  lone  widows  hear 
0    .t,  they  would  go  .„  delegations  to  tell  mother  of  cases 

all  from  a  broken  leg.     No,  I  would  write  very  short  bu 
very  cheerful  letters  for  a  while. 

What  with  Helen's  daily  bouquet  of  flowers  and  the 
c loee  frtuts  w,.h  wbic,  Edward  kept  nn-  so  well  sup! 
phetl,  I  felt  [  was  nulee<l  a  favored  invalid 

Helen  ha<l  kept  her  word.  She  did  come  "everv  sino-le 
time  mamma  would  let  her/  which  was  neve,  to  o'ften  for 

Her  bright  sayings  an<l  sweet  «;.vs  quite  endeared  her 
to  the  nurse  and  the  doctors,  especiall  to  Dr.  Xe  II    a 
jolly,  bald-hcade,l  bachelor.    He  would  often  say:  '^T  L 
you  are  my  httle  girl,  ain't  vou '"  ' 

wiA  Lr  ""■•'  '"''^"'  '"''■'  '■'"'  '"^'  '"i^y^^  '"'  ^°'"P^ 
One  day  he  was  "mussing"  her  hair,  when  she  said : 

'rats  Tn  °tV'  "  '  """  "'^'  ''"'''•  ^^'""^  ^""  ^^'^  if  I  get 
•■Helen."  sai.l  he,  "you  know  you  said  you  were  my 

|mle  g,rl.     If  you  are  n,y  little  girl,  your  hair  is  mine, 

"Well,  doctor,  if  it  is  yours,  you  better  cut  it  off  and 
put  ,t  on,  and  then  you  wouldn't  be  bald-headed" 
The  doctor  never  "mussed  her  hair"  again  after  that. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

"A  thousand  years,  more  or  less,  to  a  mummy  is  of  little 
matter — to  the  mummy." 

W'licn  the  nurse  allowed  me  to  read  a  little  each  day  I 
quite  prized  the  books  that  Edward  brought  me  from  his 
library,  and  none  of  them  more  than  the  books  of  travel. 

When  he  saw  that  I  was  interested  in  other  countries, 
he  said  that  we  were  kindred  spirits. 

He  was  interested  in  reading  about  them,  but  far  more 
so  in  visiting  them. 

When  I  found  he  had  traveled  in  many  of  the  lands 
about  which  I  had  read.  1  soon  had  him  telling  me  of  his 
wanderings.  You  know  there  is  nothing  that  will  .so 
please  a  traveled  man  as  to  listen  to  his  story. 

"Ruben,  of  all  the  countries  about  which  you  have 
read,  which  one  interests  you  the  most?"  asked  Edward 
one  day,  when  I  could  see  that  he  was  in  a  reminiscent 
mood. 

"They  all  interest  me,"  said  I.  "Some  of  them  for  one 
reason,  some  for  another.  I  like  Egypt  because  of  its 
strange  unraveling  history.  We  know  so  little  about  it. 
but  are  ever  learning  more.  New  'birds'  tell  some  strange 
old  story  each  year.  They  tell  us  of  a  civilization  so  far 
in  the  past  that  we  wonder  at  our  not  being  further  ahead 
now. 

"I  never  could  understand  why  the  world  should  have 
gone  backward,  with  all  the  knowledge  it  once  had.     Tt 

109 


no 


MY   FRIEXD   BILL. 


K  :      t 


was  as  thou-h   wc  should   now  ddibomfplv   \       , 
had  Pone  down      Th  ,  '"  ""^  civilization 

built  to  ^c  s  of  so        o       ''  T""  "''  «'■'="'  '"^P'- 
rock-he.^    o„,ts    ie   ;  in  thr'"' , '"';  ""^  ''™"«''  ""^ 
held  the  ancient  'bSe   '      IJ," "i  Le '^'r  *"  T'"^"  ' 
greater  than  I  have  fe,t  in  an,  otht  Lttf"  '''''''  "^^ 

end    i'  Sfof 'tt'""'"'  "."■'^"■'  '^  '°  '-"^  "P™  *ese 

n,ost  aente  i„,a,inatt::-:„:-.;:t:;;r;,:;^^^^^^^^ 

the  sire  in  the  offspring-.  ^  ^^  °^ 

"f  spent  four  months  last  year  in  Eo-vnt   nn.l 
tunate  in  IiQ.r,-,,^  -^s>Pt.  and  was  for- 

yo^'^E^'S::  '  --'--'-^  ^'™f-  «'^^e,  a  risin, 

had'LlTe'ilreatfofT"'  '°''''  ^""'  ^  'P«"^'     ^ 
study.  '  '^'"°"'"S'   ^""'°"t  the  labor  of 

fi  Je"  ct,t1rto°rf '  ''"'  ""  ""'="P"°-  °f  birds  and 
n»  ire„,  ait  mto  the  stone,  as  you  would  read  a  book 

He  was  so  bright  and  o-cniil  th=,f  ,r,  , 

"ow  as  a  pleasant  drean,."  '°"^  "'°""'^  ^^'^■" 

I  asked  if  Egypt  was  not  a  very  hot  and  rf,,.* 
try,  an<l  if  he  did  not  at  ti,„^<,  .  ^'^  '^°""" 


break  our 
id  sleep  I)y 
s  all  seem 
civilization 
ong  while 

of  Egypt, 
the  same 
el  ill  that 

)yrajiiitls, 
t  tc'iples 
>ugh  the 
which  1 
H'ks   was 

on  these 

one  the 

at  one's 

face  of 

i-'as  for- 
L  rising 

'ny.'     I 
ibor  of 

ds  and 

k. 

5  seem 

coun- 

noth- 

>r  the 


MY  FRIEND   BILL.  jjj 

money  they  could  beg,  my  notion  of  them  heing  that  tliev 
were  a  race  of  beggars.  ' 

"Oh,  no"  said  he,  "there  are  always  many  tourists  in 
Egypt  and  ^.hey  are  not  long  in  attaching  themselves  to 
one  who  can  read  the  hieroglyphics  for  them 

-'The  Professor  always  had  people  around  him,  so  that 
we  .vere  never,  or  seldom,  alone." 

This  opened  up  the  way  for  a  new  line  of  conversation, 
could  see  his  lace  light  up  and  he  began  as  though  to 
tell  a  story.  ^ 

"I  shall  never  forget,"  said  he,  -'one  of  our  excursions 
A  neu-  tonih  had  just  heen  discovered  sot,ie  miles  up  the 
.\de  fron,  Memphis.     We  were  among  the  first  to  visit 

"VVe  left  the  small  steamer  at  early  dawn.  There  were 
on  the  boat,  besides  ourselves  and  our  guides,  a  gentle- 
man and  two  ladies,  with  their  guides  '      *>   "  e 

,eZh  ''f<l'P°'^^"  ^^'"^">-  '0  the  gentlen,an,  but  had  not 
seen  the  ladies.  We  told  him  that  we  were  going  to  the 
newIy-d,scovered  tomb,  and  always  glad  of  comnanv 
were  p  eased  to  learn  that  their  desiinaUon  was  .rs^ame.' 
veiled  h""""  ''"'"?  ""'  "'"""■■  "'^  '"°  '^dies,  heavily 
nu  t  in'  '"", '  n'°  ^°' '"''  '''"^''  '°  P™'*^'^'  "-'i^  faces, 
^mSem'en.  ^^"''^'  "'"^  °"  ''^'  ^"'  ^""-d  the 
"We  saw  but  little  of  then,  until  we  reached  the  ton,b; 

found  my  elf  wondermg  about  those  ladies.     'What  do 

t^nlf   1'-      '-)"  ''"'  "'^  '>-P'-'  — "  '-trili 
a   un,„  erestu,g  m  face  as  they  are  bright  in  mind  ?'    'Are 

VVlat  r  had  not.eed  as  thex-  walked  across  the  deck  was 

that  one  of  them  had  the  most  £rr-cef-,I  fi„,  ■ 

riatrp  T  u^A  gracctul  hgure  and  car- 

r.a,?e  I  had  ever  seen.     She  was  rather  tall  and  bore  her- 


m 


I ; 


112 


MY  FRIEND  BILL. 


ImI 


self  like  a  queen. 

"I  knew  by  the  gentleman  that  they  were  of  aristo- 
cratic birth. 

"One  gets  in  the  way,  while  traveling,  of  trying  to 
analyze  the  nationality  of  the  people  one  meets,  but  I  was 
at  a  loss  to  determine  the  nationality  of  the  only  one  of 
this  party  I  could  see.  In  some  ways  he  seemed  to  be 
English,  and  yet  again  there  were  mannerisms  that  were 
purely  American.  He  was  below  middle  life,  tall  and 
had  the  air  of  a  soldier.  I  knew  by  his  manner  of  speak- 
ing to  his  guides  that  he  was  used  to  giving  commands. 

"No  doubt  had  I  seen  the  faces  of  the  ladies  as  they 
came  on  deck  I  would  not  have  given  them  a  second 
thought,  as  I  seldom  am  attracted  bv  a  face,  unless  there 
IS  something  very  striking  in  it.  But  those  veils !  'What 
was  behind  them?'  And  so  my  mind  ran  on.  all  the  wav 
to  the  tomb,  which  we  reached  not  far  from  the  middle  of 
the  day. 

"Being  more  used  to  'donkev  train'  than  their  party— 
who.  we  noticed,  were  not  desirous  of  joining  us— we 
were  possibly  an  hour  ahead  of  them. 

"This  particular  tomb  was  much  like  others  we  had 
explored.  Great  heaps  of  fresh  sand  lav  all  about  the 
mouth  of  the  excavation,  showing  that  the  work  had  but 
recently  been  completed. 

"Our  attendants  lighted  the  lamps  and  made  ready  the 
ropes  to  lower  us  down  into  the  main  shaft  of  the  tomb 

"Three  of  the  guides  were  let  down  with  the  ropes  and 
the  I  rofessor  and  I  followed.  The  darkness,  a  few  feet 
away  from  the  bottom  of  the  shaft,  was  opp  essive,  but 
when  the  lamps  were  turned  on  full  we  could  see  very 
well.  ^ 

"The  guides  kd  the  way  through  manv  galleries,  until 
we  had  come  to  a  large  octagonal  vault-like  room,  which 


1-«Ji^-S«S^-; 


'yfAaitXJm»Bst.t>,»aa.-^ 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


113 


of  aristo- 

trying  to 
,  but  I  was 
ily  one  of 
lied  to  be 
that  were 
tall,  and 
of  speak- 
mmands. 
!s  as  they 
a  second 
less  there 
!     'What 
1  the  way 
middle  of 

"  party — 
;■  us — we 

we  had 

bout  the 

had  but 

eady  the 
e  tomb. 
>pes  and 
few  feet 
;ive,  but 
see  very 

es,  until 
I,  which 


we  entered  through  a  hi^i^h,  narrow  openincr  at  a  right 
angle  with  the  gallery,  of  which  this  was  the  end. 

•*\Ve  had  never  seen  one  so  constructed  before  On 
close  examination  the  Professor  found  the  walls  covered 
with  hieroglyphics. 

"These  walls  were  as  smooth  as  polished  glass,  and  the 
hieroglyphics,  deeply  cut,  could  be  followed  readily  by  the 
Professor,  who  was  soon  absorbed  in  their  translation 

"  'Wonderful !  wonderful !'  he  exclaimed.  'This  i^  the 
tomb  we  have  long  sought.  From  other  wall  writings  we 
knew  it  must  exist,  but  never  until  now  was  th^-rt^  the 
famtest  knowledge  of  where  it  was.  This  discovery  will 
set  the  tide  of  Egyptologists  to  this  spot.  I  must  be  the 
f^rst  to  herald  it  to  the  world.'     And  he  was. 

'^No  seeker  for  gold,  on  'stnking  it  rich,'  could  be  more 
wildly  elated  than  was  he  at  this  moment. 

"  'The  old  king/  said  he,  'who  built  this  tomb,  must 
have  been  a  poetical  lover.     Listen  to  this  tribute  to  his 
Queen,  whose  mummy  lies  in  this  crypt.'     I  could  not  see 
much  poetry  about  the  tribute,  but  the  Professor  said 
that  we  would  have  to  fill  in  certain  words.     I  couldn't 
but  think  that  much  of  our  own  poetrv  is  built  on  the 
same  lines.  If  the  right  words  are  filled  in  and  enough  of 
tiiem  m  their  proper  places,  the  poetry  might  Ijc  good 
"As  he  read  on  he  would  occasionally  stop  to  conmient. 
Cleopatra  must  have  descended  from  this  queen,  whose 
beauty,  through  all  the  generations  followed  down   with- 
out loss  to  form  or  face,  as  no  description  of  Cleopatra's 
rare  beauty  could  excel  this  tribute.' 

"Then  he  told  me  her  points  of  excellence,  and  had  me 
so  ^^•rought  up  that  I  forgot  where  I  was,  forgot  the 
veiled  ladies,  forgot  everything,  and  traveled  back 
through  all  the  thousands  of  years  to  where  tliis  queen 
stands  in  the  flesh.     I  see  her  on  the  throne  Ix^side  her 


Of 


•\\ 


'i  ' 


fm 

Tl 

i-''4i  '  ^1 

mm  ifl 

)<^JhiSS    a     >  *•    ^K^^^^ 

^^^H 

^^H 

I|..^^J 

^^H 

m 

I 

Im 

114 


MY  FRIEND  BILL. 


lover  k,ng;  see  her  receive  tl.e  acclaim  of  her  millions  on 
mllions  of  w.lhng  worshiping  subjects.  See  her  ruling 
t-gypt  ,n  the  zenith  of  its  splendor-her  ships  are  carry! 
.ng  he  conmierce  of  the  world  an<l  all  the  worl.i  is  paying 
her  tr,  H,te-but  hoUl-what  is  that  -  Js  it  a  fancy'  or  if 
true?    See,  she  stands  before  me  in  the  ton.b!  there- 

han    he  tribute.     My  senses  leave  me,  and  all  the  world 
IS  a  blank. 

"When  I  came  to  my  senses  again,  the  vault  was  full 
of  people,      Edwanl,'  begged  the  Professor,  'what  has 

aTright',-''  '"  ' '  '""■'■  '  '''■"''  "^  ""'  ^""  '^""S  >°"  "°""" 
"As  I  open  ,ny  eyes,  there  is  the  gentleman  of  the 
niornmg  a,Kl  the  two  ladies,  but  they  are  not  veiled  now 

1  was  much  embarrassed  and  excuse<l  myself,  layin- 
my  fannness  to  the  closeness  of  the  vault.     At  siglfo'? 
the  younger  lady,  however,  I  felt  a  return  of  the  weak- 
ness, as  her  face  was  a  true  likeness  of  the  queen.    Ruben 
n,ave  never  before  or  since  seett  wonmn  so  beautiful  as 

"All  were  pleased  with  the  Professor's  translations  and 
^ave  me  but  scant  notice.     I  was  glad  of  this,  for  I  could 

tore  robbed  me  of  my  senses. 

"  'Fatlier,  mother  and  daughter,'  was  mv  mental  com- 
ment. I  wondered  at  my  sudden  loss  'of  interest  in 
hieroglyphics ;  I  could  see  but  little  in  them.  What  did  I 
care  for  a  queen  who  had  been  a  mummy  for  three  or 
perhaps  four  or  five  thousand  years.  A  thousand  years 
more  or  less  to  a  mummy,  is  of  little  ma.ter--to  a 
mummy  and  less  to  me.  so  long  as  certain  other  queens 
can  walk  about.  ' 

I  really  began  to  have  a  distaste  for  hieroglyphics, 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


h « 


faiiiily  took   in 


seeing  the  great  interest  this   unknov... ,    ,,^^   „. 

them  and  through  them,  in  the  Professor.     I  snapmMl  ,nv 
vvatch  case  several  times,  and  altiiougli  it  rang  out  in  the 
close  vault  loud  and  clear,  the  Professor  did  not  seem  to 
hear  it  once  as  he  came  sailing  along  down  the  ages,  talk- 
ing  about  Dynasties.     As  he  was  getting  along  about  the 
bixth.  I  knew  If  I  did  not  stop  him,  that  it  would  \ye  as 
dark  outside  as  it  was  in  the  tomb  by  the  time  he  had 
reached  the  Ihirtieth,  so  I  just  spoke  up  and  said:     'I 
am  sorry  to  stop  this  highly  edifying  discourse  on  Mum- 
niyology  and  dynastical   research,  but  if  we   expect  to 
reach  tlie  boat  and  dinner  by  dark,  we  had  better  set  out 
at  once.      Would  you  believe  me,  Ruben,  thev  all  looked 
as  though  r  had  done  them  an  injury,  so  mucli  were  thev 
interested  m  the  Professor's  talk,  but  when  we  got  out 
to  the  shaft  of  the  tomb  and  tried  to  make  the  guides 
above  hear  us,  and  draw  us  up,  then  it  was  mv  turn  for  a 
little  of  their  attention. 

;A11  our  calling  and  shaking  of  the  rope  had  no  effect 
\\e  tried  to  make  some  one  of  the  guides  climb  up,  but  all 
shook  their  heads.     ^Me  no  sailor,  me  no  climb  mpe  ' 

r  knew  that  the  Professor  could  talk  about  'birds'  and 
lungs  but  when  it  came  to  action,  he  was  as  helpless  as 
a  child.  It  devolved  upon  me  to  bring  them  out.  It 
liad  been  three  years  since  I  left  college,  but  the  wav  I 
went  up  that  rope  you  would  have  thought  1  was  stiH  a 
college  boy  wel     ip  in  gymnastics. 

plough  they  had  not  a  care  in  life.  Onlv  the  dogs  of 
Constantinople  can  beat  an  Egyptian  tomb  guide  when 
It  comes  to  sleeping-he  comes  by  it  so  naturally-his  an- 
cestors    have    b^-en    iHppn    c^   1..         r.   1  > 

Egyptian  joke."'  ^  ^^     ''"'""'   '""   "  ^" 


n 


•il 


♦I 


ttfi 


Ifi 


It 


Ml:-'h 


• 


I 


11 


i  i 


ii6 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


"Yes,"  said  I,  "it  is  a  little  dark!" 

"I  soon  had  the  party  safely  out  of  the  tomb,  and  we 
made  haste  to  return. 

"Do  what  I  could,  while  in  the  presence  of  the  'queen' 
—as  she  has  ever  been  to  me— there  was  that  foolish  boy- 
like 'in  love  at  first  sight'  sort  of  feeling,  that  showed  out 
so  plamly  that  she  must  have  thought  me  a  very  weak 
young  man,  indeed.  And  that,  too,  at  a  time  when  I 
wished  to  appear  at  my  best.  It  is  always  that  way. 
Ruben,  v,ere  you  ever  in  love?" 

I  made  as  though  I  did  not  hear  him,  and  he  wenl  on 
with  his  story,  which  had  become  most  intensely  interest- 
ing to  me. 

"Long  before  we  reached  the  steamer  that  night,"  con- 
tmued  Edward,  "they  mu=t  have  wished  many  times  that 
they  had  not  been  so  interested  in  Egyptology. 

"We  lost  our  way  in  the  darkness  and  did  not  reach 
the  steamer  until  midnight. 

"It    was    a    mystery    to    me    why    those    guides    had 
missed  the  way,  but  one  day  in  Memphis,  shortly  after,  I 
met  one  of  then.,  rather  a  bright  fellow,  and  asked  him 
for  an  explanation.     At  first  all  he  would  say  was  that : 
'All  sand,  no  path,  very  dark.     Lose  way.'     His  manner 
was  so  mysterious  in  saying  these  few  simple  sentences, 
that  I  led  him  out  of  hearing  of  any  passerby  and  slipping 
mto  his  hand  the  'open  sesame'  of  every  Egyptian  lip,  he 
told  me  in  substance  that  the  chief  guides  of  the  two 
parties  had  arranged  with  another  chief  to  fall  upon  us 
and  rob  us,  but  that  for  some  reason  their  plans  had  mis- 
carried.    I  shuddered  to  think  of  what  might  have  been 
the  result,  as  these  treacherous  fiends,  who  care  only  for 
money,  might  have  murdered  us  there  in  the  dark. 

"It  was  so  late  when  we  reached  the  boat  that  we  were 
all  too  tired  and  hungry  for  anything  but  something  to 


ki    h 


Ms     FkiEN       BILL. 


117 


vat,  and  then  off  to  siccj), 

"Next  niorninp^,  as  we  awoke,  wt  .  /uiul  u  stives  in 
Mctnpliis.  Tlie  ladies  had  not  yet  cuine  on  deck  when 
we  left  the  steamer,  so  all  we  could  do  was  to  hid  the 
g-entleman  a  'tourist's'  p^ood-hy  and  seek  our  hotel.  I 
hoped  later  to  meet  this  interesting  family,  hut  they 
dropped  out  of  my  world  almost  as  soon  as  they  had  en- 
tered it. 

"W'c  remained  in  ^^emphis  a  wcc^k  longer,  hut  I  never 
before  took  so  little  interest  in  sightseeing.  There  was 
nothing  pleasing  in  anything  I  saw;  in  fact.  I  scarcely 
saw  anything.  I  was  ever  watching,  watching  for  a  face. 
I  might  he  in  a  temple  or  a  tomb,  to  see  which  others  have 
traveled  thousands  of  miles,  but  T  saw  no  beauty  in  them. 
"I  was  like  the  lone  mariner,  being  tossed  about  with- 
out sun  or  compass,  who  had  seen  on  a  broad  ocean  a 
beautiful  ship.  He  sought  the  ship,  but  it  had  passed  out 
of  his  sight  and  he  had  lost  it  forever  without  learning 
its  name  or  whence  it  had  gone. 

"We  took  a  few  excursions  up  and  down  the  Nile,  but 
I  soon  saw  that  I  had  lost  all  desire  for  travel. 

"Wherever  I  went  I  found  myself  watching  always  for 
that  unknow^n  face,  but  it  had  gone  from  out  my  world 
as  completely  as  had  the  ship  of  the  lone  mariner. 

"We  stopped  at  Rome,  at  Paris,  and  spent  some  weeks 
m  London,  but  I  never  again  saw  the  one  object  of  my 
search. 

"Almost  a  year  has  passed  since  then,  and  yet  scarce  a 
moment  but  what  I  feel  the  same  longing  desire  to  see 
again  the  only  woman  I  have  ever  loved." 


M 


'<> . 


!!{ 


I 

; 

i 

n 


'»if 


II  ■' 


'»  < 


i « 


m 


CHAPTKR  XXV. 

Jacks  heart  beat  wild  with  joy. 

In  all  his  zvayzvard  years, 

How  lozv  so'ere  the  course  he  led, 

A  little  child  was  ever  wont 

To  touch  the  one  sweet  chord 

Of  all  his  dark  life's  way, 

And  bring  him  back  to  better  self. 

Having  a  strong,  rugged  constitution,  unfitted  for  in- 
valid purposes,  I  was  soon  sitting  up  in  the  most  com- 
fortable  chair  I  had  ever  sat  in-one  tliat  Edward  had 
sent  a  day  or  two  before. 

The  DePIertburns  had  been  most  kind.  They  had  all 
been  to  see  me,  to  express  their  gratitude. 

"We  can  never  repay  you,"  said  Mrs.  DeHertburn  one 
day. 

"My  dear  lady,  you  have  already  done  far  more  than 
my  simple  act  could  merit.  Besides,  you  forget  what  an 
hourly  joy  It  is  to  me  to  feel  that  I  was  permitted  to  save 
the  life  of  Helen,  who  has  crept  into  mv  heart  as  no  child 
has  ever  done  before.  No,  Mrs.  DeHertburn,  I  am  the 
one  to  feel  grateful."    And  I  really  felt  so 

My  experience  with  this  family  was  a  revelation  to  me 
Somehow  I  had  always  thought  of  the  ver>^  rich  as  a 
people  who  cared  only  for  outward  show,  people  who 
were  devoid  of  true  heart  sentiment.  But  here  was  a 
family  whose  place  (I  have  since  learned)   was  in  the 

ii8 


I    F 


MY    IklEND    BILL. 


119 


inner  circle  of  tlic  city's  best  pccpk-.  willi  hearts  hrininiing 
ft'M  of  human  fcchn).,^ 

One  day  the  nurse  iiad  wlieeled  nie  into  the  hirge  room 
next  to  mine.  It  was  a  sort  of  parlor.  As  I  sat  reading 
1  heard  the  tiniest  knock  on  the  door  and  called  to  the 
nurse  to  open  it.  As  she  did  so,  in  ran  Helen  with  an 
"Oh,  Mister  Ruben.  1  cumbed  almost  by  myself.  No- 
body cumbed  with  me  but  Beatrice,"  who  just' then  came 
in  with  a  "Good-morning,  Ruben." 

"Yes,  Mister  Ruben,  I  bring-d  Beatrice  with  me, 
'cause  she  is  awful  lonesome,  'cause  Tousin  Wallie  went 
away  off  on  the  big  water  in  a  big  shij),  for  paj)a,  that 
day  what  you  kept  me  from  being  an  angel,  and  he  won't 
cumbed  back  for  a  long,  long  time." 
^^  "Now,  Helen,"  said  Beatrice,  with  a  faint  little  blush, 
"you  promised  mamma  you  would  not  talk  so  much  to- 
day. We  call  her  our  little  phonograph  at  home."  This 
to  me. 

"I  ain't  a  fonygraff.  I  on  y  say  what  I  fink  myself. 
Am  la  fonygraff.  Mister  Ruben?  Beatrice  is  a  fony- 
graff. 'cause  she  says  lots  of  things  what  Tousin  Wallie 
says."     More  little  blushes. 

"Mister  Ruben,  ain't  you  well  now?  You  said  when 
you  got  well  you  would  tell  me  a  story  about  that  man 
what  was  a  nice  little  boy  when  he  was  little,  but  a  bad 
man  when  he  growed  up  to  be  a  man,  but  what  always 
loved  little  children,  and  one  day  he  was  in  a  theatre  and 
killed  himself  for  them,  because  there  was  a  fire  he  didn't 
want  them  to  know  about,  and  then  all  the  little  children 
put  flowers  on  his  grave  a.id  loved  him  ever  since.  You 
know.  Mister  Ruben,  what  I  mean." 

"If  he  does,  Helen,  he  is  a  very  bright  young  man  to 
know  from  that  mixture  of  yonrs.  Ruben,  docs  she  al- 
ways run  on  like  this  ?" 


:^>.-M 


.A 


Hi  » 

I  ft; 


'  •    IS     •  ll!J  1^3 


120 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


Ah,  AIiss  Beatrice,  if  you  knew  how  it  pleases  me  to 
hear  her  child-talk  you  would  not  say  a  word  to  prevent 
her  sayuig  it  as  she  wishes.  She  fills  my  heart  with  sun- 
shme  every  time  she  comes." 

"Now,  Beatrice,  you  mustn't  talk  a  bit,  'cause  Mister 
Kuben  ,s  gomg  to  tell  all  about  that  good  little  boy  what 
was  a  bad  man,  but  loved  little  children." 

wIrH 'p-'  '^'^  ^T  ^'^"  '''^''  '""'^^  '^^"^^  ^^'^  of 
speak  of  it."'    ''  "'     "^    ^^''''   ""'''''''  ^^^^^-^ 

"Yes,"  said  I,  "if  poem  it  may  be  called,  but  I  had  better 
terses ''  ^''''''  ^'  ^'^'^'"  '^"  ''"'"^^^  understand  it  in  my 

"I  can  understand  it.  Mister   Ruben.     Tousin    Wallie 

Tt  rTal  glod  '"^^  '"  """'''"  '"  ""''''''  ^"^^  ^  ""^-"^^-^d 

I  recited  It  for  them,  but  will  not  ask  you  to  listen  to  it 
nere,  as  it  is  quite  too  long. 

The  story  was  a  true  one  of  a  young  Englishman,  the 
on  o    an  aristocratic  family,  who  had  high  expectations 

Zl    ,    T.   ^  ^''  '''''^'''  ^'^^^  ^'^y^^^  '^'^^  l^e  might  do 
some  deed  of  worth,"  but,  like  many  another,  he  took  the 
wrong  course,  and  we  know  too  well  that: 

"From  palace  to  the  wayside  lane 

Is  but  a  step, 

If  led  by  Bacchus'  luring  hand !" 

wiih 't •  .7""''  ^  '^"^  '"'^  '^'"'^  ^^^°''-  'The  company 
u.h  which  he  was  connected  was  giving  a  perfon.ance  at 
one  of  the  great  manufacturing  cities  of  England  to  a 
thousand  chHdren.  While  "Jack"  was  on  the  stage,  din^ 
hi  act,  fire  broke  out  behind  the  scenes,  and  but  f^r  bin! 
there  would  have  been  a  panic.    The  curtain  was  dropped 


"f: 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


121 


and  he  renewed  his  efforts  to  amuse.  His  efforts  were  too 
great,  for: 

"A  something-  broke,  right  here 
I  heard  it  snap," 

and  he  died  on  the  stage,  but  he  had  held  them  while 
those  behind  had  "fouglit  the  fire."  He  was  buried  at 
that  city,  and  to-day: 

"No  hero's  grave  more  honored 
Or  more  loved  than  Jack's ; 
Kept  white  with  flowers 
Strewn  there  by  loving  httle  hands. 
The  first  blooms  of  Spring, 
The  last  of  Autumn's  bloom, 
Are  gathered  for  his  mound, 
The  Mecca  of  a  thousand  little  ones 
Who  hold  his  memory  sweet. 

They  love  him  for  his  love  for  them. 
For  all  this  love,  let  no  one  say 
His  life  a  failure  proved. 
But  in  that  life 
That  he  might  count 
Some  Deed  of  Worth." 

I  could  but  wonder  at  the  interest  with  which  this  little 
child  drank  in  the  story,  and  was  surprised  to  see  how 
well  she  had  understood  it. 

"Mister  Ruben,  ain't  he  a  angel  now?    He  didn't  have 

.t.  uia,  i,„^,  ^  j^^e  cause  he  was  bad  sometunes,  did 

he?    He  was  so  good    to  save   all    the   little   children. 


Pi 
III 


nm 


■m^ 


d 
■'  i     ... 

'» ■ 


.■ 


122 


MY  FRIEND  BILL. 


In-tt"2  tX  '"  u"'  '°"'  "''^"  "'^>'  "^  -"^^'^  »  they 
can  t  find  Jack  in  heaven  ?  «  / 

"Little  children  love  people  what  saves  them.  I  love 
you,  Mister  Ruben,  oh,  lots  more  than  this  much—' 
and  she  spread  her  little  arms  as  wide  as  she  could,  mak- 
ing  my  heart  fairly  bound  with  joy 


r-i 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 


ii 


"Ruben,  zvcre  you  ever  in  lover  asked  Edzi'ard. 

"Yes;  once,"  said  I,  "hut  I  lost." 

"Cheer  up;  you'll  imn  her  yet." 

"I  hope  not!" 

"Why?"  asked  he. 

"Because  she  married  the  other  fellow." 

"Ruben,  I  once  asked  you  if  you  were  ever  in  love,  but 
you  did  not  answer  me.     Were  you  ?" 
"Yes,  Edward,  once;  but  I  lost." 
"Cheer  up,  my  boy,  you'll  win  her  yet." 
"I  hope  not,"  said  I. 
"Why?" 

"Because  she  married  the  other  fellow." 

"Come,  now,  Ruben,  you  must  tell  me  all  about  it,  if 
it  is  not  too  tender  a  subject.  One's  own  misfortunes 
seem  easier  to  bear  if  they  can  hear  those  of  others." 

He  had  been  so  kind  to  me  that  I  could  but  begin  my 
story,  which  I  did  at  once: 

"Alice  was  the  daughter  of  the  big  Squire  of  the  Coun- 
ty. Although  she  lived  many  miles  from  Highmont,  she 
used  often  to  visit  our  village,  where  she  had  a  married 
sister.  I  shall  never  forget  the  first  time  I  saw  her.  She 
may  not  have  been  beautiful,  but  my  young  fancy  painted 
her  as  such.  Her  sister  lived  near  the  village  school-house. 

-i.e  on  these  various  visits  I  cared  little  for  the  games 
at  'recess'  or  the  noon  hour,  preferring  to  'hang  around* 

123 


f. 


ji , 


1  ii.'] 


124 


MY  FRIEND  BILL. 


It, 


and  watch  for  Alice.     She  smiled  on  me  one  day!     The 

fTiends'w"    '°  "  n'"  '"''''  "'"  ^^'^^  "'^'  -  were 
fnends.     We  grew  older,  yet  both  were  very  young  when 

she  went  away  to  school.     At  this  school  was  my's^  eT 

ll-ey  were  good  friends,  Alice  and  Anna.     How  I  did 

How  the  hnes  m  which  Alice  played  the  principle  part 

beT  rV"  n'"Y'  ''''~''^'  ^'  nothin'gcoJd  X 
Jt^beat  now,  for  older  hearts  are  harder,  truer  mayhap,  but 

ho7r'^   ^Ti    ^^''''"  ^  "'^^  S™"-"  I  "-'^t  Alice  and 

A  ce     'rlr      1,  ""  "''"''■  '"'''-'''■'''■  --'-™- 
iVomel'vAte    T  "'^  ™^'"'="^'  '^"'  J^'  ^o^^.  zealous, 

fakl     n^  ,  ''^^-^°"'^'"''  help  it,  for  old  time 

take-my  rival  was  there,  but  he  only  smiled. 

wasn^'nrJtf"''  °^  '"  °'^  ^'^''  =""<'  ^  "^"="=<'-  She 
but  1  '^T'  '"^'  '"°''''  ""'^  ^  ^"''"''  '°^'=  her  any  more, 
bm  do  you  know  I  was,  oh,  so  glad,  to  see  her  and  hear  he 

Ahce  of  the  old  days,  when  to  crush  a  heart  was  a  joy  to 
her.     I  just  hstened  and  was  glad  to  hear  her  voice      i° 

hT£l   retr^'  ""TT  °^  '''''  ^^•-  "f<=  --  " 
"V,       rf   ,     '  ''"*  "''=  ^°'''^'  '"-^  '^f  childhood. 

back  tith  '^  "\  '''■''I  ^  """^''*  °^  "'^  ""?  ^''^  ^™' 
back   with   I  was  only  m  fun!'    How  happv  it  made  me 

feel  to  remember  that  'only  in  fun!'     I  thought  of  wl" 

tl  frin'^w'^r'n 't^'"  "°*  ''""  '°"'>'  -  f""  •  -'dl5 
the  ring.    Well,  I  looked  at  Charlie,  and  said  a  silent  sav 

■n  my  heart:  Old  boy,  Vm  glad  she's  yours.' ''  ^ 

Edward  seemed  greatly  interested  in  my  one  love  storv 

part  :7,^  T  '""  H '.  ''''''  '  '°''  '''"'  ♦''^'  "^^  -i^ul 
part  of  It  all  occurred  between  the  tenth  an,)  fiff»»„,i 

ot  my  !ife.     The  ring  having  been  returned  a^  founder' 


*'       .1 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


12; 


"Your  love,"  said  Eduanl,  "was  that  of  childlioo.l.  not 
the  real  love  of  maturity." 

"Ah,"  said  I,  "mine  was  real.  When  Alice  sent  back 
my  'filled'  ring  which  I  had  worked  so  hard  to  pav  for  (it 
cost  two  dollars  at  the  village  store),  I  felt  there  was 
nothing  left  for  me  to  live  for.  It  was  a  sad  blow  to  my 
little  heart,  but  I  must  confess  that  the  point  wliere  the 
blow  struck  is  now  entirely  healed." 

Edward  was  ever  sad  of  late.  He  always  seemed  to  be 
thmking  of  that  "face."  I  would  defend  my  voung  love 
and  try  thus  to  draw  his  mmd  from  his  brooding,  hoping 
to  get  him  to  forget,  as  I  had  forgotten,  so  I  said: 

"You  have  only  the  face  to  remember.     I  had   face 
friendship  and,  as  I  thought,  love,  and  lost  all.    You  have 
only  the  face ;  had  you  known  the  character,  it  might  have 
been  one  entirely  uncongenial  to  you— unsuited  to  vour 
nature." 

"A  face  like  hers,"  returned  Edward,  "was  but  the  in- 
dex of  a  character  so  pure  and  gentle  that  I  could  always 
love.  Though  she  returned  a  thousand  rings,  mv  heart 
could  not  but  go  out  to  her.  I  have  had  many  'fancies 
which  I  thought  were  loves,  but  never  until  I  saw  that 
face  in  the  tomb  did  my  heart  tell  me  what  real  love 
meant." 

I  fain  would  have  continued  but  he  seemed  more  sad 
as  he  talked  of  the  "face,"  and  I  thought  to  turn  his  mind 
by  askmg  him  how  long  the  doctors  intended  to  keep  me 
shut  up,  away  from  my  outdoor  life. 

"Ruben,"  said  he.  "Dr.  Whipple  says  you  are  doing  so 
well  that  in  a  week's  time  I  may  take  you  for  a  drive  in 
Central  Park,  which  you  say  you  have  once  seen." 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "once— from  the  outside."  I  smiled  as 
I  recalled  that  "once." 


a 


II! 


li'kii 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 


<i 


<( 


<( 


Stopping  in  front  of  a  tall,  rough-looking  stone    Bd- 
tvard  said: 

'That  is  Cleopatra's  Needle!' 

'Where's  her  thread?'  I  asked,  thinking  to  jest  a:.ay 
that  look  of  sadness  from  his  face." 

One  week  from  the  day  that  Edward  had  promised  to 
take  nic  driving  through  Central  Park  he,  with  Beatrice 
and  Helen,  were  at  the  hospital. 

Dr.  Whipple  said  it  was  quite  safe  for  me  to  be  out  for 
two  or  three  hours. 

Plelen  was  very  happy  that  morning.  ^Mamma  said  I 
would  be  in  the  way,  but  I  told  her  you  said  I  was  never 
in  the  way.     Am  I  ever  in  the  way,  ]\Iister  Ruben  ?" 

^'No,  Helen,  and  you  never  will  be.  I  will  always  be 
iiappiest  when  you  are  near  me." 

''Beatrice,  you  must  tell  mamma  what  Mister  Ruben 
said  and  then  she  will  ahvavs  let  me  come 

"Mister  Ruben,  I  call  this  carriage  my  Victory.  Mamma 
says  I  have  too  many,  but  I  don't— only  this  one 

"Mister  Ruben,  are  you  glad  to  get  out  doors?  I 
would  be  if  I  staid  in  a  long,  long  time  like  you  did  " 

Not  far  from  the  "Rizervoy"  Helen  said:  'That's  our 
house,  Mister  Ruben.  Oh,  there's  mamma  at  the  win- 
dow  as  she  waved  her  little  gloved  hand.  "And  see, 
Mister  Ruben,  here's  where  you  saved  me.  Are  you 
sorry  I  run'd  across  the  street.^" 


126 


MY  FRIEND   BILL.  ^^7 

If  ever  a  man  was  really  happy  in  thinking  of  an  axici- 
dent  I  was  that  man.     1  felt  if  it  ever  came  in  my  way  to 
do  a  good  turn  to  the  grocer,  whose  horse  had  caused  it 
I  would  do  it  with  a  whole  heart.  * 

Edn-ard.  during  the  drive  to  the  park,  kept  pointing 
out  the  various  places  of  interest,  but  none  of  them  were 
new  to  me. 

Beatrice  seemed  unusually  happy  that  morning.  I  had 
never  seen  her  in  such  fine  spirits. 

I  attributed  it  to  the  fresh  bracing  air  and  the  beautiful 
park  through  which  we  were  driving,  but  that  could  not 
be  the  reason,  for  she  said  they  drove  through  it  nearly 
every  day.  ^ 

I  had  never  noticed  her  so  closely  before.  Of  course  I 
could  not  help  noting  that  she  was  very  pretty  the  first 
time  I  had  seen  her,  but  now  that  I  could  study  her  face 
1  was  surprised  at  its  great  beauty. 

She  had  a  mass  of  light  brown  hair,  large,  lustrous  eyes 
and  the  prettiest  pink  and  white  complexion  I  had  ever 
seen.  Her  face  was  a  type  one  seldom  meets  with  but 
once  seen  the  picture  of  it  remains  fixed  in  the  mind  '  Her 
manner  was  as  sweet  as  her  face  was  pretty.  There  was 
no  affectation.  She  was  open  and  frank  in  her  speech 
and  withal  I  found,  myself  quite  envying  "Wallie"  before 
we  returned  to  the  hospital. 

"Oh,  Mister  Ruben,  I  clear  forgot  to  tell  you  the  big 
news  Tousin  Wallie's  coming  home  to-morrow  on  the 
big  ship,  and  Beatrice  is,  oh.  so  happy !"  No  white  in  the 
lace  now ;  pink  predominates. 

"Why,  Helen,"  said  I,  "you  told  me  that  'Wallie'  would 
not  come  back  for  a  long,  long  time !" 

-Well,  I  know,  but  that  is  what  Sister  Beatrice  said, 
^ne  said  it  would  be  an  age !" 
"Helen,  Helen,  you  know  what  I  told  you  before  we 


t  . 


n  t' 


11 


Stf-  i»  J  -  ti 


128 


MY   FRIEND  BILL. 


started?"  said  Beatrice,  with  reproving  look. 

"Oil,  yes,  I  know ;  you  told  me  1  sliould  not  say  'Waliie* 
once— and  that  you  would  give  me  all  the  bonbons  I  a  M 
eat  if  I  didn't.  Oh,  I  am  so  sorry"  (patting  Beatrice  on 
the  cheek),  "dear,  sweet,  lovely  sister  Beatrice  that  I  said 
that— because— because  I  love  bonbons  so  nuich." 

"Yes,"  said  Edward,  "Tousin  Wallie  returns  to-mor- 
row. Our  firm  had  a  very  important  transaction  in  Lon- 
don that  really  required  one  of  the  firm  to  look  after,  but 
neither  father  nor  I  could  possibly  leave  at  the  time,' and 
we  were  compelled  to  trust  it  to  one  of  our  men,  and  we 
chose  Wallace." 

"No,"    broke    in    Helen,  "he's  Tousin  Wallie,  Tousin 
Wallie— he  ain't  'Wallace'  never." 

"Well,"  resumed  Edward  good  naturedly,  "Tousin 
Wallie  then.  It  was  a  great  risk  on  our  part  as  he  is 
quite  young  -just  turned  of  age— but  he  is  remarkably 
bright  for  one  so  young.  He  finished  the  work  in  an  in- 
credibly short  time,  and  to  our  entire  satisfaction.  The 
London  firm  with  which  the  business  was  is  an  old  house 
and  considered  very  shrewd  in  the  market,  but  'Wallie' 
was  quite  able  to  protect  our  interests.  We  are  greatly 
pleased  with  him." 

I  thought  that  Beatrice  was  going  to  throw  her  arms 
around  her  brother's  neck  right  then  and  there,  as  she 
seemed  so  happy. 

At  one  place  in  the  park  Edward  had  the  driver  stop. 

I  glanced  about  to  see  what  there  was  to  look  at,  but 
saw  nothing  to  be  compared  with  other  parts  where  we 
had  not  stopped.  In  fact,  all  that  I  saw  was  a  big,  tall, 
rough  looking  stone  set  on  end,  but  Edward  sat  there  in* 
the  carriage  and  looked  a  long  while  at  that  stone.  I 
could  see  that  his  face  was  more  sad  than  I  had  ever  seen 
it  before.     Even  more  sad  than  when  he  told  me  about 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


129 


the  lust  "face"  in  Egypt. 

"Ruben,"  said  lie  finally,  "du  yuu  know  wliat  that  stone 
is?" 

^  "No,"  said  1.  "why  should  1  ?  I  have  never  even  seen 
t\.  park  before  except  from  the  outside."  But  the  way 
he  asked  me,  and  the  way  he  looked,  I  felt  sure  he  was 
going  to  tell  me  that  it  was  a  "gravestone"  erected  to  the 
memory  of  some  dear  friend,  and  yet  I  could  not  think 
It  I30ssible  that  any  one  should  be  buried  in  a  public  park 

"That,"  said  he,  "is  Cleopatra's  Needle." 

"Where's  her  thread?"  1  asked  thinking  to  jest  away 
that  look  of  sadness  from  his  face. 

He  did  not  smile,  but  sat  there  silent. 

"Brother  Edward,  why  do  you  always  stop  at  this  stone 
and  look  at  it  so  long,  and  then  all  the  way  home  never 
say  a  word?"  and  Helen  cuddled  her  little  head  on  her 
brother's  shoulder  and  looked  up  into  his  face,  so  sweet 
like,  that  I  could  scarcely  believe  he  could  resist  her  af- 
fection, but  he  never  noticed  her  at  all. 

The  driver,  without  being  told,  turned  and  drove  out 
of  the  park. 

I  wrote  a  long  letter  to  sister  Anna  that  afternoon  I 
told  her  of  the  drive  through  the  beautiful  park  "It  is 
larger,"  I  wrote,  "than  our  whole  farm  at  home,  and  full 
of  flowers  and  trees;  with  wide  drivewavs,  and  winding 
walks  and  bridges  that  we  drove  under;  with  little  lakes 
on  which  boats  floated  and  geese  with  the  longest  necks  I 
had  ever  seen  swam  about.  There  were  more  animals  than 
AX  e  ever  saw  at  a  circus,  and  the  queerest  animals !  Some 
of  them  I  had  never  heard  of.  One  big  fellow  in  a  tank  of 
ANater,  when  he  ate  hay,  opened  the  whole  front  part  of  his 
head  and  seemed  to  enjoy  it.  I  would  tell  vou  his  name 
only  that  It  would  make  my  letter  too  long.     I  never  could 


n' 


n\ 


I30 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


Ifv- 


iJ/ 


li-i! 


m 


write  of  all  I've  seen  to-day.  I  could  not  have  believed 
there  was  so  nuich  beauty  in  the  world,  and  yet,  sister,  do 
you  know,  the  people  who  live  here  think  very  litile  about 
it  I  Really  they  look  at  all  these  surpassing  scenes  with 
as  little  interest  as  we  would  look  at  the  woods  lot  back  of 
the  barn.  I  guess  it  is  because  they  have  had  it  to  look  at 
from  childhood.  Somebody  has  said:  'Beautiful  is  not 
beautiful  if  you  have  only  beauty  to  look  at,'  but  I  know 
that  what  I  have  seen  to-day  will  never  lose  its  charm 
for  nie. 

"You  see,  Anna,  I  did  a  favor  for  a  family  some  time 
ago,  and  you  would  be  surprised  to  know  how  much  they 
all  appreciated  it.     There  is  in  this  family  the  father  and 
mother,  one  son,  a  young  man  of  twenty-three,  and  two 
daughters,  one  a  young  lady  and  the  other  the  dearest, 
sweetest  child  you  ever  saw,  and  the  brightest  talker  you 
ever  heard,  for  one  of  her  age.     What  is  so  nice  about  her 
is  that  she  likes  to  talk,  and  I  never  tire  listening  to  her. 
She  says  she  loves  me  'oh,  so  much.'     You  know,  sister, 
the  litle  girls  always  did  like  me— up  to  a  certain  age. 
Oh,  I  forgot  to  tell  you  the  reason  the  child  says  she  loves 
me.     One  day  I  was  going  up  the  street  that  Bill  lives  on 
■—you  know  it  is  called  Fifth  Avenue— when  there  was  a 
grocer's  wagon  going  along  and   I  just  pushed   Helen 
(Helen's  her  name,  Helen  DeHertburn)   to  one  side  so 
that  the  wheel  of  the  wagon  would  not  touch  her  as  it 
passed,  and  the  family  seemed  to  think  I  had  done  some- 
thing great.     Why  they  would  often  send  me  fruit  down 
to  the  big  house  where  I  have  been  stopping  temporarily, 
I  having  changed  my  boarding  place  for  a  while,  there 
w^ere  so  many  people  at  the  other  house.     What  I  liked 
even  better  than  the  fruit  were  the  flowers  that  Helen 
'bringed'  me  every  day.     Not  having  done  enough,  the 
three  took  me  in  their  carriage  up  Fifth  Avenue  and 


MV   FKlliXlj    liiLL. 


IJI 


to  sniilc  tu  iK.ar  lldu,  teas.  I,.r  .sister  i;«,i,icc  al„,„t    t 
vouny  ,ua„   wl,o,„  she  calls  ■Tut.sh,    \\  ailie  '  l,' 

"■■;.!<.  at  .uch  th„es,  of  our  liill,  „,,,,„  Cvc  ..ever    ct  s 
or  K.a,..|,,.      Me  ,„t,s.  I,c  clifferct  fn„„  lieatna';   W 
\    II  e,  lor  he  ,s  ,„  the  e,„„K„  ol  her  father,  uhlle    . 
Lill  sinii.ly  V  01..S  for  soiuehody. 

"-Must  stop,  widi  hest  wishes  to  the  vili,,I .   .  , 
:^  '';«-^'""«  '";•  •'--  "i'lows;     Tel,  ■„„  ,  ,,„     ;"^  ; 
-•■la,n.yot,rlov,„g  brother,  A.  I<u,„n.' 

'•    ^.-l    ..early   forgot   to  say   that  »l,e„    [   pushed 

,.ot  broken  a  httle.    Don  t  worry  or  tell  a.,vo.,e  aliont  it  as 

hclow   tl  0  knee   lu.t  they  soon  got  well.     V„„  e.an',  !,„- 
aK"K.  what  a  h„e  tin.e  1  have  heet.  havit.g  si.,ce  i    .^ 
ctrt-e.  -never  have  had  so  good  a  tin.e  in  al?  n.v  hfe ' 

Aew  iork.  I  could  .ntroduce  him  to  a  real  live  pro- 
fessor.    I  ani  sure  Joe  wouki  like  hi,,,.     ]|e  is  ,  ,t  n  ,d, 

met  h,n,.  It  was  at  a  place  they  call  a  "clnl,."  Peonle 
who  saw  us  meet  ren.arked  that  we  were  like  two  old 
fnends,  almost  like  brothers-son.e  brothers  - 


I  I 


.1  1 


•Hi' 


Ik 


I   i 


ciiAi'TKR  xxvnr. 

//  it  zvcre  not  out  of  place  to  momlhc  at  this  point,  I 
would  say  that  the  teacher  2,'ho  has  to  use  a  suntch 
is  not  a  fit  person  to  teach.  If  I  could  say  it  here,  it 
Zi'ould  compensate  me  for  the  dailies  I  used  to  <v/. 

When  Helen  and  Beatrice  came  tlie  next  afternoon. 
Helen  was  in  oreat  i^lee,  and  Beatrice  was  all  smiles,  for. 
as  Helen  said:  "Tonsin  Wallic  has  come  back  and  he 
bringed  me  the  most  pretty  thing:s  yon  ever  saw,  and  to- 
morrow I  am  s:oins:  to  make  him  come  to  see  you." 

"Yes;  Init.  Helen,"  said  I,  "he  may  not  want  to  come. 
I  am  of  no  interest  to  him  ;  hv  does  not  know  me." 

"Oh,  Mr.  j'inben.  ycm  don't  know  Tonsin  W'allie.     He 
alays  does  just  what  I  ask  him.     He  knows  if  he  don't  I 
will  say  thinos,  and  he  says  I  know  too  many  things  to 
say,  so  he  does  anything  I  ask.    1  would  not  tell  him  who 
you  are.  or  anything.     \  on'y  said  you  were  my  little  beau. 
Won't  he  be  fooled  when  he  sees  how  big  you  are?     Oli. 
it  will  be  such  fmi !    When  yon  hear  us  coming  you  must 
jimip  behind  the  bed.  then  when  we  come  in  I  will   .av 
'Boo!'  and  you  must  jimip  up  quick,  and  won't  he  be 
scared?"     And  the  little  darling  was  so  delighted  with 
the  prospect  that  it  did  me  a  world  of  good  to  see  her.  as 
she  planned  the  morrow's  meeting.    "Mr.  Ruben,  see  this 
pretty  pin   Tonsin  \\'allic  bringed  me!"  and  then,   in  a 
wdiisper,   v.atchitig   Beatrice  out  of  the  corners   of  her 
eyes,  "and.  oh.  :\Ir.  Ruben,  he  bringed  Beatrice  the  beau- 

132 


MY   FKIDXU   BILL. 


133 


i\ 


tifulcf,t  ring  yuu  ever,  ever  saw,  hut  don't  tell  anvlxxly 
at  all."  •        ^ 

"Helen,  what  are  you  siying  to  Ruhen?  Vou  know 
you  pronn'sed !" 

"Yes.  Sister  IJeatrico.  hut  I  on'y  just  whispered— 
that  don't  count,  does  it,  Mr.  Ruhcn  ?  Xo,  Sister 
Beatrice,  that  dcm't  count.  We  must  go  now.  We 
on'y  had  time  to  run  in  a  minute,  and  tell  you.  Now.  re- 
memher.  Mister  Ruhen.  when  I  say  'Hoo!'"  And  I 
watched  for  them  to  get  into  the  carnage,  and  as  they 
drove  away  Helen  was  waving  her  little  hand  up  to  my 
window. 

Such  had  hcen  my  fate  all  my  lite.  The  little  girls  had 
always  seemed  to  love  me.  hut  love  me  only  as  they  would 
a  good,  gentle  old  family  horse,  that  would  allow  them  to 
caress  and  fondle  it.  Woidd  this  he  my  fate  always? 
Would  there  never  come  a  time  when  they  would  not 
outgrow  their  childish  affection  for  me?  I  feared  not, 
and  in  my  hapj  '  less  T  was  really  sad. 

"To-morrow  often  seems  ages  away.  I  must  have 
spent  hours  at  the  window,  watchiu"-.  watchinsr 

W  hy  should  I  take  so  nii,>  li  interest  in  the  coming  of  a 
stranger?  What  was  he  to  me,  or  I  to  him,  that  I  should 
look  forward  to  his  coming  as  though  he  were  a  friend, 
or  my  own  Bill?  F  IkkI  hcgun  to  lose  all  interest  in  P.ill ! 
Here  I  had  hecn  weeks  in  Xew  York,  and  with  my  name 
ni  the  paper  a  numl)er  of  times— (he  certaiidy  must 
have  seen  it  and  known  T  was  in  the  city)— and'hc  had 
not  sought  me  it.  He  is  ashamed  of  his  old  friend 
Ruhc.  Good  «nough  at  home,  hut  not  good  enough  for 
Fifth  Avenue! 
And  thus  I  was  brooding  myself  into  a  most  unhappy 


state  of  mind  when  T  saw  a 


rornncrp  fiirninrr  iti     qo   *hr\nrrU 

-1..-  -.!.•_  _     ^  >.  I  . . .  1 1.       ,, , ,    ^1  J,    tii'-rcii:  I J 


I. 


to  stop  in  front  of  the  hospital. 


Ii  ■■) 


134 


MY  FRIEND   BILL. 


It  IS  Helen  and  JJeatrice,  and  with  tliem  a  fine-looking 

gentleman.     Can  that  be  Wallie.^     How  odd  the  name 

s(nm<is  when  applied  to  that  tall,  elegant-looking  voun-^ 

man  with  them!     Thev  nrp  n,if  ^f  fi  •  -''^'■"^ 

"•     iiicv   arc  out  ot  the  carriage,  comin'^- 

up  in  the  elevator.     I  nKMitally  count  the  stones.     Now 
they  are  m  the  hallway,  but  I  am  safe  behind  the  bed   so 
arranged  as  to  quickly  jump  out.    They  are  in  the  ro;m 
i  can  hear,  but  cannot  see  them.     I  hear  a  little  laugh   a 
httle  voice  cries  out  ^iJoo !"    I  jump  out 
"T3ill!" 

other."^''""  ''  '"  '''  ''"  ''-''  "'  '''  '^''^"^^  ^^'^t^^""^?  ^^^^^ 
"What's  the  matter,  Mister  Ruben?  what's  the  matter, 
Tous.n  Walhe?  Who  told  you  each  other's  names  ^ 
Beatrice  you  told  them-and  spoiled  mv  fun,"  and  she 
was  nearly  crying  from  disappointment!  lUit  we  were 
soon  a  happy,  merry  party  when  explanations  had  been 
made. 

"Why.  Helen."  said  I,  "your  Toi.sin  Wallie  is  mv  Bill  " 
^^Jes.    said  Bill;  "and.  Helen,  your  Ruben  is  nn'  Rube. 

"Where  did  you  know  Wallie.  Mister  Ruben'  You 
never  saw  him,  did  you?  You  never  tol.l  me  he  was 
yours!  Oh  Beatrice,  ain't  it  jolly?"  and  she  jumped  up 
and  down  for  joy.  Then  Bill  and  I  tok!  how  we  had 
been  born  and  reare<l  in  the  same  little  town  awav  off 
among  the  mountains. 

"Helen."  said  I.  "there  are  only  a  few  bouses  there,  and 
all  of  them  so  sniall  that  you  would  won.Ier  that  people 
could  live  ,n  them :  but  we  never  knew  about  the  ercat 
bouses  in  the  city,  and  were  very  happy  in  our  h^,es. 
We  went  to  a  httle  school :  o,dy  one  room.  The  big  bovs 
and  the  httle  boys,  the  big  girls  and  the  little  girls  all  in 
that  o.,e  little  school-house !     It  kept  the  teacher  so  busy 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


135 


whipping^  that  he  never  had  time  to  teach." 

''You  never  got  whipped,  (Hd  you,  Mister  Ruben?" 
asked  Helen,  but  Bill  was  so  overcome  with  the  question 
that  I  could  not  reply,  giving  him  a  chance  to  exclaim 
*'Did  he?"  with  much  emphasis  on  the  "did." 

"Rube,"  asked   Bill,   "do  you   remember   how    Hoard 
whipped  you  every  day  all  winter  just  to  make  you  cry, 
and  didn't  bring  the  tears  until  one  day  in  the  spring?" 
It  was  my  turn  to  exclaim,  "Do  I  ?" 
It  was  a  revelation  to  Helen  and  Beatrice  to  hear  of 
children  being  beaten  with  sticks  and  struck  upon  their 
little  hands  with  ferrules  by  big,  grown  men,  who  had 
not  education  enough  to  occupy  their  time  at  teaching !    I 
told  them,  however,  that  the  teachers  of  the  present  day 
are  becoming  more  civilized  and  less  barbarous. 

"I  would  fight  'em!"  exclaimed  Helen,  and  this  was 
the  first  time  I  had  seen  her  show  any  temper.  I  could 
not  but  think  that  what  was  once  looked  upon  as  absolute- 
ly necessary  in  the  training  of  children  in  making  them 
do  what  was  the  right,  only  resulted  in  bringing  out  and 
nurturing  the  evil  in  them.  If  it  were  not  out  of  place  to 
moralize  at  this  point,  I  would  say  that  the  teacher  who 
has  to  use  a  switch  is  not  a  fit  i>erson  to  teach.  If  I  could 
say  it  here,  it  would  in  a  small  measure  compensate  me 
for  the  "dailies"  I  used  to  get. 

"On  y  the  big  men  w^ere  bad  and  whipped  little  chil- 
dren, the  nice  ladv  teachers  didn't  whip,  did  thev.  Mister 
Ruben?" 

"Ask  Bill !"  said  I.  to  even  matters  up  with  him. 
"Do  they,  Tousin  Wallie  ?" 

"Oh,  yes;  they  used  to  whip  Ruben  often!"  and  still 
Bill  was  ahead. 
"I  atn  so  sorry.  Mister  Ruben !"    That  evened  them  up. 
The  time  passed  so  quickly  that  the  hour  for  my  friends 


I'm 


in 


!  = 


II 


I 


s 


136 


MY  FRIEND  BILL. 


to  go  had  come  long  before  I  had  begun  to  realize  my 
good  fortune  in  the  strange  manner  in  which  Bill  and  I 
had  found  each  other.  He  promised  to  come  again  on 
the  morrow,  and  they  left  me  a  very  lonelv  young  man. 


i' 
I 

il.    :} 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

The  bad  boy  of  a  village  became  the  great  man  of  a  city. 

That  was  a  happy  week  for  me.  Bill  came  nearly  every 
clay  to  visit  me.  He  had  not  been  at  the  old  home  for 
two  years ;  and  while  his  mother  had  written  him  often, 
there  were  many  things  she  had  not  told  him,  and  I  had 
to  tell  something  about  nearly  everybody  for  miles  around 
Highmont.  It  made  little  difference  what  I  told.  Bill 
said  the  bare  mention  of  a  name  gave  him  pleasure.  He 
did  not  care,  he  said,  if  Jake  Mitchell  had  painted  his  barn 
blue  or  green,  just  so  he  heard  Jake's  name,  and  was  glad, 
too,  that  I  had  mentioned  the  barn,  for  it  brouglu  up 
happy  memories  of  the  day  he  had  helped  raise  it. 

"You  helped !  What  could  vou  do?  You  were  only  a 
child  then."  ' 

"Oh,  yes.  I  helped  Elenora  wait  on  the  table  at  noon  I" 
It  all  came  back  to  me  then.  I  had  heard  of  his  help- 
ing on  that  memorable  occasion,  and  how  he  had  put  salt 
in  all  the  old  ladies'  tea,  and  the  trouble  he  caused.  Bill 
may  be  all  right  now,  but  at  barn  raisings  he  had  to  be 
watched. 

"And  what  has  become  of  bad  John  Woodman?"  asked 
Bill.  John  had  been  the  worst  boy  who  had  ever  lived  at 
Highmont.  His  was  the  name  that  made  the  small  boy 
tremble.  'T\\  tell  John  Woodman  on  yer,  if  yer  don't 
gimme  the  core  of  yer  apple!"  always  produced  the  core 
and  as  much  of  the  apple  as  was  left  at  the  time  the  threat 

137 


I 


l;l: 


n 


I 


!» 


■r' 


i;* 


Jf.^-I 


'*  i 


i  *i 


:ii  SI 


I  f 


wi 


n<l> 


138 


MY  FRIEND   BILL. 


was  made.    And  now  Bill,  who  I  knew  had  lost  many  a 
"core,"  wanted  to  know  wliat  had  become  of  this  bad  boy. 
**What!"  said  I  in  surprise,  "haven't  you  heard  how  he 
went  to  Chicago,  became  one  of  that  city's  great  builders, 
was  elected  Alderman  and  is  looked  upon  as  one  of  the 
great  men  of  that  city  ?     And  haven't  you  heard  how  that 
when  Libby  prison  was  to  be  taken  down  and  removed 
from  Richmond  to  Chicago,  it  was  John  who  was  chosen 
to  do  the  important  work  and  how  well  he  did  it?     Yes, 
Bill,  the  bad  boy  of  a  village  became  the  great  man  of  a 
city." 

"Oh,  I  could  ask  you  a  thousand  questions  more."  said 
Bill;  ''to  hear  of  that  dear  old  town  fairly  makes  my 
heart  overflow  with  sweet  memories.  Oh,  yes,  and  what 
has  become  of  your  old  Aunt  Racheal,  at  whose  house  we 
used  to  go  to  visit  at  sugar-making  time  ?  You  know  she 
lived  away  down  in  the  valley,  ten  miles  awav  from 
town." 

"Poor  Aunt  Racheal,"  said  I,  "she  died  last  summer." 
"And  what  became  of  the  old  barren  farm  she  lived 
on  ?     She  had  no  children  to  leave  it  to." 

"She  left  it,"  said  I,  "to  sister  Anna  and  me,  but  what- 
ever we  can  do  with  it  I  do  not  know.  So  far,  nobody 
will  take  It  and  pay  the  taxes  for  its  use,  but,  Bill,  didn't 
we  have  fun  on  those  trips  ?" 

^  "One  of  the  sweetest  memories  of  my  life  was  my  vis- 
iting at  her  home.  You  know  she  lived  in  an  old  lo- 
hewn  double  cabin.  Everything  about  it,  even  to  thi'^ 
day,  seems  hallowed— the  gourd  we  drank  from  at  the 
well,  with  its  long  'sweep.'  the  swinging  crane  in  the  old 
wide  fireplace-the  corn  pone  she  made  and  baked  in  the 
Dutch  oven,  set  before  the  fire,  with  ashes  and  coals 
heaped  around  and  over  it— the  maple  'taffy'  she  fed  us  on 
—the    great    old-fashioned  copper  cents  she  gave  me— 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


139 


cents  whose  value  has  never  been  equaled  by  all  the  dollars 
1  ve  had  smce-the  stories  she  told  us  no  writer  has  ever 
excelled!      In  a  word,  Aunt  Racheal  was  my  childhood 
goddess.  Why  she  was  so  much  to  me  I  have  never  known 
bhe  was  very  old  and  never  a  bcautv;  I  suppose  she  was 
quite  ugly  m  reality,  but  to  me  no  queen  of  beauty  ever 
held  the  place  in  my  affections  that  Aunt  Racheal  held      I 
remember  going  down  with  father  and  moth.er  in  a  sleio-h 
one  bitter  cold  day.  and  how  thev  sat  me  on  a  hot  paper- 
wrapped  brick  to  keep  me  warm.     I  did  not  think  of  the 
cold,  for  I  was  'goin'  ter  Aunt  Rachers.'     Bill    I  often 
wonder  if  the  children  of  the  great  citv  have  their  Aunt 
Radicals.     I  know,  if  they  have,  that  none  of  them  could 
ever  compare  with  mine. 

"She  became    very    feeble    toward    the  last.     Father 
brought  her  to  our  home  and  gave  her  of  the  best  we  Iiad 
making  her  later  days  as  happv  as  possible." 


3 


■I 

^     ! 


f    I 


•HI  I  '  • 


m 


n 


W' 


^1 


tl 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

A  wrong  cannot  he  changed  into  a  right  by  n'ords,  be 
they  never  so  cunningly  arranged. 

''And  now,  Bill,  you  have  much  to  explain  to  me  as  to 
how  you  have  succeeded  so  well  in  New  York  in  the  few 
years  you  have  been  away  from  the  village.  How  did  you 
gain  the  friendship  of  this  great  family  with  whom  you 
seem  to  be  on  such  intimate  relations  ?  I  have  not  heard 
of  your  saving  the  life  of  any  of  its  members  ?" 

"Well,"  he  began,  "you  may  remember  of  my  once  tell- 
ing you  of  a  distant  relative  of  my  mother's  who  had  made 
a  vast  fortune  in  the  West  and  had  removed  to  New 
York.     Well,  Mr.  DeHertbern  is  that  relative.      We  had 
lost  track  of  him  for  years.     When  I  came  here  a  boy  of 
sixteen,  full  of  enterprise,  I  thought  that  all  I  need  do  was 
to  go  into  an  office,  ask  for  a  position  and  be  shown  to  a 
cushic      J  seat  and  given  a  gold  pen  to  write  with.     The 
first  day  here  caused  me  to  drop  both  cushion  and  pen. 
The  second  day  I  had  begun  to  grow  a  bit  discouraged. 
No  one  wanted  any  help.     It  was  either  'the  dull  season' 
or  'we  want  a  boy  with  experience'  or  a  dozen  other  'ors.' 
My  country  notions  of  the  easy  paths  of  the  city  were 
fast  clogging  up  those  paths,  and  as  one  after  another 
dropped,  I  foimd  all  the  paths  entirely  blocked.     I  had 
reached  that  point  where  I  would  have  taken  anythino- 
offered,  yet  I  still  sought  for  a  place  among  the  office*^ 
down  town.    By  chance  I  saw  on  a  great  office  the  name 

140 


MY    FRIEND   BILL. 


141 


(( <' 


(<  (• 


'Dellcrtbern,'  and,  like  the  country  boy  I  was,  I  thoug-ht 
of  that  distant  relative,  and  sent  in  my  name.  By  the  bar- 
est chance  it  reached  Mr.  DeHertbem  himself.  He  sent 
for  me  to  come  to  his  private  office. 

Well,  my  young  man,  what  can  I  do  for  you  ?' 
I  am  hunting  for  a  position.' 

"  'What  can  you  do  ?' 

'*I  had  not  thought  of  that,  never  having  reached  so 
far  up  toward  a  position  before;  but  I  answered,  'I  came 
here  from  the  country.  I  do  not  know  that  there  is  a 
single  thing  I  can  do,  but  I  am  strong  and—and  will  try 
to  do  what  I  am  given  to  do. 

"  'From  the  country  !  Van  Alden  !  Odd  name  !'  He 
sat  meditating  aloud,  seeming  entirely  to  forget  that  I  was 
there.  1  never  knew  but  one  of  that  name  before.  A 
dear  cousin  of  my  mother's— she  married  a  Van  Alden— 
I  have  not  heard  of  her  for  years— dear  .Cousin  Mary !' 

"  'Why,  my  mother's  name  is  Mary.' 

"  'What  was  her  maiden  name?' 

'"Mary  Wallace!' 

'"What,  Mary  Wallace,  of  ,  Kentucky?'  now  all 

attention. 

'Yes,  and  daughter  of  Thomas  Wallace.  She  mar- 
ried my  father,  William  Van  Alden,  after  whom  I  was 
named.' 

"  'My  lx)y,  I  have  a  place  for  you.  If  you  are  a  son  of 
Mary  Wallace  Van  Alden,  you  come  from  one  of  the  best 
families  of  Kentucky,  and  I  will  try  to  help  you  make 
your  way  in  New  York.  Your  grandfather  once  did  me  a 
favor  when  I  was  a  poor  boy,  and  I  then  said  I  would 
some  day  return  it.  It  has  been  a  long  time  unpaid— but 
I  will  repay  it !     W1iat  did  you  say  vour  first  name  is^' 

"  'William  Wallace.' 

"  'Well,  Wallace,  I  am  going  to  make  you  work.     You 


4 


■i 


•  1 


i 


li 


il   • 


m^i 


142 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


f  ■!' 


will  think  culling  cord  wood,  or  ihinning  corn  on  a  hot 
day  very  easy  work,  but  it  will  do  you  good,  and  if  you 
can  stand  it  you  will  thank  me  for  making  it  hard  at  the 
start.     If  1  find  you  capable  and  quick,  and  you  should  be 
both  with  Wallace  blood  in  your  veins,  I  will  advance  you 
from  time  to  time,  but  1  uill  „ot  advance  you  from  one 
position  to  another  until  I  am  more  than  convinced  that 
you  know  the  first  one  well.     I  will  take  pride  in  mak- 
ing  you  a  man  worthy  the  name  your  mother  bore      I 
shall  call  you  Wallace.     I  like  that  better  tlian  William 
besides  the  boys  can't  nickname  vou  Bill.'     1  wanted  tJ 
smile  as  I  thought  of  'Bill'  as  the  only  name  I  could  ever 
remember  of  having  to  answer  to. 

"  *My  son,  Edward,'  continued  Mr.  DeHertbern  'is 
now  away  at  college.  I  shall  not  mention  your  even  dis- 
tant relationship  to  my  family  until  you  have  proven  your- 
self worthy,  therefore  this  shall  be  an  incentive  to  you  to 
do  well.  -^ 

"I  cared  very  little  wether  he  ever  mentioned  it,  so  far 
as  his  son  was  concerned,  but  when  his  pretty  little  daugh- 
ter used  to  come  down  to  the  office,  oh.  how  I  did  wish 
I  had  the  right  to  call  her  'Cousin  Beatrice,'  and  as  vear 
atter  year  she  grew  more  and  more  beautiful  I  worked 
harder  and  even  harder  to  deserve  that  right.     About  a 
year  ago  Helen  began  coming  to  the  office.     I  soon  made 
friends  with  her,  as  I  was  where  I  had  more  leisure  and 
less  of  the  office  drudgery  to  do.     At  first  she  would 
spea^c  to  me  as  'Mr.  Vain  Allen,'  then  as  she  would  hear 
her  fatlier  call  me  'Wallace,'  she  came  to  calling  me  'Wal- 
lace.     One  day  she  told  me,  'Mr.  Wallace,  when  I  like 
people  awful  much  I  call  'em  "Tousin."     I'm  goin-  to 
ca  1  you  ''Tousin  Wallie.''     Won't  that  be  fun?     Tousin 
Wallie !     And  after  that  she  would  call  me  hv  no  other 
name.     It  was  about  this  time  that  Mr.  DeHertbern  in- 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


143 


vited  me  to  his  house  to  dinner— tlie  very  first  time  in  the 
four  years  1  had  been  with  him.  In  all  that  time  I  had 
never  spoken  of  the  relationship  to  any  one  save  to  my 
mother,  who  was  overjoyed  to  hear  of  my  good  fortune  in 
gettmg  a  place  with  Mr.  Deliertbern. 

"That  evening,  after  dinner,  and  when  we  were  all  seat- 
ed in  the  large  family  room,  Mr.  Deliertbern  bc-an  and 
told  a  very  entertaining  story  of  his  younger  davs.  whai 
he  was  poor.     He  told  how  that  a  man  by  the  'name  of 
Thomas  Wallace  had  given  him  the  money  with  which 
he  was  enabled  to  reach  California.     'I  was  fortunate,' 
said  he,  'in  meeting  with  success  from  the  very  start.     I 
soon  returned  the  money— several  times  the  amount   I 
had  been  given— but  I  never  felt  that  the  debt  was  can- 
celled.    Years  after  I  had  come  to  New  York,  a  young 
man  applied  to  me  for  a  i)osition.     I  gave  it;  he  proved 
worthy,  as  I  felt  he  would.     Thomas  Wallace  was  my 
mother's  cousin.' 

"The  family  were  now  all  attention  as  Mr.  DeHertbern 
continued  his  story.  'And  the  young  man,'  (speaking 
very  slowly)  'was  the  grandson  of  Thomas  Wallace,  and 
that  young  man  is  your  cousin,  William  Wallace  Van 
Alden.'  Rube,  I  tell  you  it  was  worth  four  years'  waiting 
to  get  the  reception  I  was  given  at  that  moment.  Little 
Helen  nearly  cried  for  joy.  'Oh,  mamma,'  she  said  'he  is 
really  and  truly  "Tousin  Wallie." ' 

"I'm  afraid  in  the  cousinly  kisses  they  forgot  dis- 
tance altogether,  but  I  did  not  remind  them  of  it,  especially 
so  Beatrice,  who  seemed  quite  as  happy  as  Helen.  Since 
that  time  I  have  not  only  been  advanced  rapidly  in  the 
busmess,  but  I  am  always  given  a  welcome  in  their  home. 
"But,  Rube,  you  have  had  enough  of  my  story.  Tell 
me  your  experience  since  coming  to  New  Vork,''  and  I 
told  it  during  his  several  visits. 


j! 
», 


I'ltJ 


144 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


'■■■■I 

■  ■In' 


\     |: 


Bill  called  it  "Rube's  continued  story."     lie  laughed 
over  my  many  mistakes. 

"I'll  wager,"  said  I,  "that  no  city  boy  who  had  never 
been  outside  of  his  own  town  in  his  life;  one  who  had 
never  heard  of  the  country  except  as  a  place  where  grass 
grows,  could  have  done  any  better  in  Highmont  than  I  did 
in  New  York.     Don't  you  remember.  Bill,  the  two  preach- 
er's boys,  Walt  Heaver  and  Wilbur  Cannon,  who  used  to 
come  with  their  fathers  quarterly  meeting  time?     Oh,  the 
fun  we  had  with  them!     Vou  mind  how  Walt  wanted 
some  specimens  of  'last  year's  bird's  nests'  to  take  home 
and  how  we  got  behind  the  trees  while  he  pulled  down  a 
hornet's  nest  that  was  still   in  business?     Wasn't  he  a 
sight  the  next  day !     He  said  afterward  that  it  looked  just 
like  the  picture  of  an  oriole's  nest.     And  don't  you  mind 
the  day  we  taught  Wilbur  the  'half  bushel'  trick  and  how 
he  had  to  stay  in  bed  for  two  days  afterward!     I  may 
be  very  ignorant  of  city  ways,  but  so  far  I've  not  picked 
any  Mast  year's  birds  nests'  or  tried  to  kick  a  half  bushel 
with   my  heels  higher  than   somebody  else.     Walt   and 
Wilbur  were  simply  ignorant  of  things  about  which  they 
had  not  heard.     Such  may  have  been  the  case  with  me. 
I  may  have  been  pretty  'green.'  but  I  guess  the  professor 
with  the  'baby  pillow  mittens,'  is  about  the  only  one  who  is 
ahead  so  far,  except  the  cab  driver,  and  I  will  get  along 
up  his  way  before  I  am  through.    With  the  professor,  you 
notice,  I  have  no  spirit  of  revenge.     I  simply  am  satisfied 
to  allow  him  to  'wear  the  belt,'  as  they  say  here.     I  have 
no  desire  to  get  anywhere  near  even  with  him.     But  say, 
Bill,  when  I  wrote  sister  Anna  I  told  her  to  tell  big  Joe 
Long  that  if  he  came  to  New  York  that  I  would  intro- 
duce him  to  a  friend  of  mine,  'a  real  live  professor.'     If 
Joe  comes — well,  Bill,  you  know  big  Joe  was  the  only  one 
who  could  out  box  me,  and  he  has  a  notion  that  he  knows 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


145 


the  'manly  art*  by  lieart.     I  thought  I  knew  it.  too,  but 
went  clear  asleep  trying  to  prove  it  to  the  professor." 

"Do  you  know."  asked  Bill,  "that  Edward  understands 
the  art  of  self  defense?  In  fencing  with  swords  he  dis- 
armed a  French  professor  from  I'aris  who  wore  cham- 
pionship medals,  and  as  a  pistol  shot  he  has  few  equals. 
He  is  so  non-communicative,  however,  that  one  never 
would  know  from  him  what  he  can  do.  He  is  power- 
fully built  and  his  nuiscles  are  like  finelv  tempered  steel. 
Unlike  too  many  rich  men's  sons,  he  has  the  constitution 
of  a  yeoman.  Have  you  heard  him  sing,  accompanied  on 
his  guitar?  You  have  not?  Well  you  have  tli^t  pleas- 
ure in  store.     I  have  never  heard  so  fine  a  voice  as  his." 

And  as  Bill  ran  on  I  wondered  if  there  were  anything 
Edward  could  not  do. 

Just  then  the  subject  of  our  conversation  came  into  the 
conservatory,  where  I  often  sat  after  I  could  walk  alx>ut. 

"Well,  well,"  said  he  in  his  most  cheerful  manner,  ''and 
so  the  invalid  is  walking  about !  Glad  to  see  you  improve 
so  fast,  but  Ruben,  remember  there  is  no  hurry ;  you  must 
give  the  lx)nes  plenty  of  time  to  knit !" 

"Dr.  Whipple  says  it  will  be  safe  for  me  to  leave  the 
hospital  in  one  week  from  to-day." 

"So  soon  ?"  asked  Edward.  "And  Ruben,  that  is  what 
brings  me  here  to-day.  Father  and  I  have  been  talking 
the  matter  over  and  we  feel  an  interest  in  vour  future. 
What  do  you  purpose  doing  when  you  have  bi.lden  good- 
bye to  your  good  gentle  nurse  and  faithful  Dr.  Whipple?" 

"In  the  first  place."  I  replied,  "Bill  has  promised  to  take 
me  out  to  see  the  city  and " 

''Keep  you  off  the  Bowery,"  broke  in  Bill. 
^"We  will  Uke  a  few  trips  around,  and  I  will  then  have 
to  go  back  home,  as  it  has  taken  me  a  long  time  %>  do 
what  I  had  come  for— to  find  my  friend  Bill." 


'  ( 


1i, 


11  ".r 


f  ! 


146 


MY  FRIEND  BILL. 


What 


"I  do  not  nicaii  your  iiiuiKMliatc  intentions, 
have  you  I  id  out  as  a  hfe  work  ?" 

"I  suppose  I  shall  go  back  and  run  the  farm,  that  is 
about  all  I  am  fated  for,  and  1  am  sure  it  is  the  only  thing 
I  can  afford  to  do,  as  1  have  not  the  necessary  education 
for  a  profession  and  cannot  afford  to  gain  such  an  edu- 
cation." 

"Thcit  is  just  the  ix)int  of  which  I  wish  to  speak,"  said 
Edward.  "Father  and  I  have  both  noticed  that  you  have 
a  turn  lor  a  profession." 

1  thought  again  of  the  only  two  I  had  had  much  experi- 
ence with  since  I  came  to  the  city,  neither  of  which  I 
would  choose  as  a  life  work. 

"How  would  you  like  medicine?" 
"No.     I  never  liked  nicdicine — even  as  a  child!" 
"How  would  you  like  the  ministrv?" 
"Bill,   think  of  'Rube'  as  a  preacher!     No.  Edward, 
there  are  already  too  many  preaching  without  a  'call '  " 
"The  law,  then?" 

"There,"  said  I,  "is  the  only  one  I  care  anything 
about.  In  it  1  could  fight,  contend,  argue  and  never  stop 
till  'lightning  strikes  the  building.'  I  don't  want  any  lit- 
tle fhmage  case  law,  or  the  defending  of  a  man  who  has 
deliberately  done  a  wrong,  but  in  defense  of  a  principle 
or  a  downtrodden  fellow  being  I  could  fight  to  a  finish  and 
never  tire." 

"Bravo,  Ruben !  You  talk  like  you  were  in  the  court- 
room already.  Yes,  Ruben,  law  should  be  your  life's 
work,  and  we  want  you  to  begin  at  once  its  study,"  said 
Edward. 

"I  might  myself  wish  to  begin  it,  but  my  reason  would 
tell  me  to  go  back  home  and  run  the  farm,  that  being  the 
only  calling  I  know  how  to  run  without  capital.  It  takes 
money,  Edward,  to  fit  one's  self  for  the  law,  and  money 


Jul 


MY   FRIEND    BILL. 


J  I 


M7 


siifhcicnt  1  have  nut." 

''Tluit  is  the  smallest  item  in  the  uliule  matter."  said 
i^clwarcl.  "it  you  will  aj^nve  to  go  to  all  the  trouble  to 
study-aiul  it  will  be  hard  work->-years  of  it-u  hy  we 
udl  look  after  the  moiiey  part,  and  be  most  happy  for  tJie 
pnvilej.,'-e." 

"  VVhat !  you  pay  for  my  schooling,  my  educati(Mi !  Whv 
sliotdd  you.^  1  have  no  ri.oht  to  accept  so  ^reat  an  olTei'. 
1  have  already  been  loo  long  a  care  to  you !" 

"Vou  forget,"  he  replied,  "what  wJ  ^  *c  to  vou  But 
lor  you  Helen's  life  had  been  de-troy  mI  ;ud  our  home 
ninde  desolate." 

"'Jl.'Mi  you   would  pay  me   in  money  for  doing  that 

V  inch  '  had  been  a  craven  coward  not  to  do?     No,  Ed- 

V  ard.  ;  am  repaid  a  thousand  times  already,  an.i  as' long 
as  memory  lasts  the  payments  will  run  on.  growing 
sweeter  as  the  years  come  and  go.  1  appreciate  vour  kind 
wish,  and  thank  you  for  it,  but  I  can  never  accept  money 
m  any  form  for  doing  a  duty." 

He  seemed  hardly  to  comprehend  my  refusal.  I  feared 
I  had  been  too  abrupt  in  it,  and  put  it  'in  other  words  less 
emphatic,  but  with  the  same  meaning.  He  remained  but 
a  short  time.  He  said  to  Bill  afterward  that  he  had  never 
before  seen  a  man  so  determined  as  I.  He  could  not  see 
n-hy  I  had  thrown  away  an  opportunity  to  reach  the  ob- 
ject of  my  ambition. 

"Why,"  said  he,  "there  are  single  days  when  we  make 
more  money  than  Ruben's  course  at  college  would  cost— 
and  yet  he  would  not  allow  us  to  work  just  one  day  for 
him."  Tt  is  so  strange  how  words  can  be  used.  To  look 
at  Edward's  sentence  to  Bill,  T  had  been  ungrateful  not 
to  allow  them  to  work  that  one  day  for  me.  and  for  a 
long  time  I  was  puzzled  to  know  why  it  had  looked  that 
way,  but  then  this  thought  came  to  me :    A  wrong  cannot 


i  t 


H 


- '  i 


■■rftf 


li  I 


It 


M  mi 


148 

he  chang-ed 


MY  FRIEND  BILL. 


-ight  by 


words,  be  they  never 
ningly  arranged. 

"It  would  have  been  a  pleasure  to  the  DeHertberns/ 
said  Bill,  "to  have  sent  you  through  college." 

"But  then,"  said  I,  "it  is  not  their  pleasure,  but  my 
own  self-respect  which  must  govern  my  own  actions.  I 
have  no  financial  claim  on  them,  however  grateful  they 
may  feel  toward  me,  and  to  have  accepted  what  I  had  no 
right  to  accept  would  have  made  me  feel  as  though  I  were 
being  educated  as  a  child  from  the  almshouse,  and  they 
would  always  have  looked  upon  me  as  a  ix>ssession  and 
not  as  a  self-respecting  man.  No,  Bill ;  1  will  go  back 
to  the  hills  and  plow,  sow  3..d  reap,  but  I  will  take  back 
with  me  an  unbroken  spirit." 

When  Bill  had  told  me  of  the  quiet  good  the  DeHert- 
berns were  continually  doing,  I  could  more  fully  ap- 
preciate Edward's  surprise  and  disapi>ointment  at  my 
refusal  to  accept  the  law  course  at  college. 

"Nobody,"  said  Bill,  "knows  the  good  that  family  does 
during  each  year.  They  always  refuse  to  do  anything 
through  the  organized  charities,  for,  as  Mr.  DeHertbern 
says,  it  costs  two  dollars  to  distribute  one  dollar,  and  the 
real  needy  might  starve  before  help  would  reach  them. 
He  says  the  men  who  run  these  organizations  are  usually 
a  lot  of  broken-down  politicians,  who  would  be  paupers 
themselves  did  not  their  party  look  after  them,  and  yet 
the  arrogance  with  which  they  conduct  the  aflfairs  of  the 
organisations  is  almost  enough  to  drive  the  self-respect- 
ing poor  to  the  river  dock,  rather  than  to  ask  for  assist- 
ance at  their  hands. 

"I  have  often  gone  with  Edward  in  our  'slumming' 
suits,  and  quietly  helped  some  poor  family.  We  personal- 
1y  investic^atc  each  case.  for.  Ruben,  the  city  is  full  of 
imposters.    We  have  often  found  a  family  drinking  and 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


they 


149 


feasting  which  we  had  been  told  was  on  the  verge  of 
starvation.  I  have  often  heard  Edward  say  that  the  ix>si- 
tion  of  the  very  rich  is  a  trying  one.  'If  one  give,'  he 
would  say,  'in  a  way  that  the  public  knows  of  it.  then  one 
is  giving  only  for  show.  If  one  give  quietly,  so  that  the 
public  knows  nothing  of  it.  then  one  is  close,  miserly, 
stingy,  and  don't  deserve  the  smiles  of  fortune.  Again, 
if  one  give  and  the  public  knows  of  it.  then  one  is  overnin 
WMth  the  most  beseeching  letters,  calls  are  made  at  one's 
office,  at  one's  home,  on  the  street,  everywhere,  until  life 
is  a  burden,'  an'  so  they  let  the  public  think  of  them  as 
close  and  mi.serly,  and  go  on  selecting  their  own  charities." 


^1 


11^ 


Irf^ 


n^ 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 


Hi 


1  ll 


Ten  thoumnd  human  beings  cast  out  upon  a  cold,  selfish 
Zi'orld  that  the  fez,'  may  make  a  little  larger  per  cent.! 

I  never  knew  how  far-reaching  a  simple  story  could  be 
until  one  day  Bill  asked  me  about  the  Anarchists'  story  of 
"The  Death  of  Little  Edith."  I  had  almost  forgotten 
that  I  had  told  Helen  and  Beatrice  about  Edith,  once  when 
Helen  had  begged  me  to  "tell  her  a  tale." 

"Well,"  said  Bill,  "Helen  told  the  story  when  she  went 
home;  told  it  and  cried  as  though  her  little  heart  would 
break.     That  very  day  ^fr.  DeHertbern  had  had  a  long 
conference  with  a  syndicate  of  men  about  organizing  a 
trust  to  control  the  manufacture  of  a  great  product.    The 
papers  were  all  in  shape,  ready  for  signing  the  next  day. 
Mr.  DeHertbern  was  the    one    man  who  could  put  the 
'dear  through.     If  his  signature  was  obtained,  the  com- 
bmation  of  fifty  'plants'  was  assured:  if  he  refused,  the 
'plants'  remained  as  they  were.     Next  dav  every  member 
of  the  syndicate  was  present.    They  were  in  high  spirits. 
They  were  about  to  consummate  that  which  they  had 
worked  years  to  gain.    I  was  at  the  meeting.    The  chair- 
man was  in  his  seat,  and  the  assembly  was  called  to  order. 
"  'Gentlemen,'  said  he,  'we  have  very  little  more  to  do— 
the  work  has  all  been  done,  but  the  signing  of  a  few 
papers.      Mr,  DeHert!)ern.  you  examined  this  paper  yes- 
terday.   Just  sign  here  please— there,  on  that  line.' 

'One  moment,'  began  i\Ir.  DeHertbern.     'I    did    not 


(( I) 


150 


MY  FRIEND   BILL. 


151 


not 


quite  nnderstand  yesterday  how,  by  this  combination,  we 
would  gain  that  extra  per  cent.  In  fact,  1  did  not  think 
of  it  further  than  that  it  would  be  gained.' 

"  'Mr.  Secretary,'  said  the  chairman,  'you  perhaps 
known  more  about  that  than  any  one  else.  Kindly  ex- 
plain to  Mr.  Detlertbern.'  The  secretar>',  a  man  of  very 
great  importance,  from  a  certain  standpoint--his  own- 
arose  with: 

"  'Mr.  Chairman  and  assembled  gentlemen :  I  have 
given  this  matter  very  deep  study.  In  fact,  it  was  I  who 
conceived  the  thought.  It  was  born  in  my  brain,  and,  as 
the  chainnan  wisely  said,  I  should  know  more  about  the 
matter  than  any  of  you ;  and  I  do.  By  this  combination 
we  will  eliminate  competition  among  the  various  com- 
panies and  thereby  gain  higher  dividends;  but,  gentlemen, 
the  great  source  of  gain  will  be  in  the  cutting  down  of 
plants.  Where  we  now  have  fifty,  we  will  be  able  to  do 
the  same  work  with  forty.  Think  of  it,  gentlemen.  Ten 
plants  cut  oflf  will  mean  a  dividend  that  will  place  our 
stock  among  the  best  paying  in  the  land.'  (Cheers  and 
rubbing  together  of  hands  among  the  members  of  the 
syndicate,  who  are  now  all  smiles.) 

"'One  word  further,'  said  Mr.  DeHertbern.  'How 
many  mill  hands  will  this  save  us  ?'  Looking  over  the  list, 
the  secretary  said : 

"'Well,  taking  the  ten  mills  I  will  close,  I  find  they 
have  an  average  pay  roll  of  one  thousand  each— thus  i 
will  cut  the  pay-roll  down  ten  thousand  people.  Think  of 
it,  gentlemen,  ten  thousand  that  we  won't  have  to  pay!' 

"  'Yes,'  quietly  spoke  IMr.  DeHertbern,  'but  what  will 
become  of  these  ten  thousand  ?' 

"'Ah.  there  it  is  again!'  replied  the  secretary,  his  face 
m  a  V\Tcath  of  smiles.  'I  had  forgotten  to  speak  of  that 
point.    A  very  important  point  it  is.    These  ten  thousand. 


i 


ii: 


'  h 


piM 


ll 


152 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


not  knowing  how  to  clc  any  other  kind  of  work,  will  have 
to  follow  us  to  our  forty  remaining  factories,  and  with 
this  extra  number  of  idle  hands  we  can  get  labor  at  our 
own  price,  and  I  will  make  a  still  greater  per  cent,  for 
you.  Gentlemen,  the  more  I  think  on  the  subject,  the 
more  I  see  the  greatness  of  my  conception.' 

"  'I  am  glad  to  hear  your  explanation,  Mr.  Secretary  ' 
said   Mr.  Del-Iertbern.     'You  make   it  indeed  plain.     I 
had  not  looked  upon  the  matter  in  that  light  before,  and 
I  warrant  that  few  gentlemen  in  the  room  have.    Who  of 
you  want  an  extra  per  cent,  for  your  money  gained  at  the 
terrible  price— ten  thousand  human  beings  cast  out  upon 
a  cold,  selfish  world  in  order  that  we  few  here  assembled 
may  make— wliat   we  do  not   need— a   little  larger  per 
cent,  for  our  money.     Gentlemen,  I  will  not  sign.'    And 
no  one  urged  him.    The  meeting  adjourned.    The  various 
members  quietly  left  the  room,  and  went  back  to  their  fiftv 
plants."  .  ^ 


H  .1 


nil 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

"Then  tell  me,  I  begged,  liozv  ean  you  distinguish  the 
gentlemen  from  the  icaiters?" 

"You  can't  very  z^rll  at  the  beginning  of  a  dinner,  but  at 
the  close  it  is  not  at  all  difUcuit,  as  the  sober  ones  are 
the  zvaiters.  This  may  not  be  original,  but  original 
things  are  not  looked  for  at  a  banquet." 

The  day  came  for  me  to  leave  the  hospital.  For 
many  reasons  I  was  almost  sorry  to  go.  When  I  look- 
back upon  those  weeks  I  cannot  remember  a  thing- 1  would 
now  have  different.  Even  the  pain  is  forgotten  in  the 
pleasure.  Dr.  Whipple  said  I  had  been  a  most  obedient 
patient,  while  the  nurse,  when  she  bid  me  gcxKl-bye, 
seemed  even  sad,  and  hoped  I  would  come  back  some 
time — but  not  as  a  patient. 

Bill  came  for  me  and  we  went  away  together.  The 
reception  I  got  at  the  boarding-house  that  evening  was 
what  Bill  called  an  "ovation."  Even  the  Heathen  seemed 
glad  to  welcome  me  back.  The  landlady  said  that  old 
Mrs.  Crowley  had  taken  the  best  of  care  of  my  cari>et 
sack  and  umbrella.  "An',  yis,  Misther  Rubing,  I  lit  naw 
wan  sa  yer  buke.  I  hid  it  awa'  far  ye."  I  was  thankful 
to  her,  for  one  never  likes  their  writing  to  be  seen  until 
it  reaches  the  printer.  No  doubt,  at  this  particular  ixyint, 
some  reader  will  stop  long  enou-V  for  a  mental :  "Ruben, 
there's  where  you  made  a  m.istak..^  Had  yon  shown  your 
manuscript,  I  might  not  now  be  a  readei ;' 

153 


I  i 


i 


!    - 


i;i, 


*  5 
I 


•H 


■..1^ 


:i 


'J 


;iM 


V      J 

if.  <  c| 


154 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


th 


In  selecting  my  boarding  place,  by  a  queer  coincidence 
i  had  gone  but  just  around  the  corner  from  where  Bill 
hved  on  Fifth  avenue.      He  kindly  offered  to  share  his 
room  with  me,  but  I  was  well  situated  and  liked  my  fel- 
low-boarders.     Besides,   I   coukhi't   -ro  over  on   to   the 
avenue  all  at  once.     I  would  have  to  get  there  by  easv 
stage..     13,11  says:    ''You  mean  a  cab."     J ^Hl  never  will 
get  through  talking  about  R.ibe'«  firs^  cab  nde,  or  "Rube 
on  the  ahvnu  hunting  for  Bill."    He  thinks  he  is  an  artist 
but  the  pictures  lie  draws  of  that  ride  would  not  be  any 
sort  of  a  guide  for  a  detective  U  he  were  looldng  for  me 
The  acciden:  had  a!)  but  ruined  my   Sunday  suit  of 
cIothes--thc  only  one  I  had.     The  iirst  thing,  therefore, 
to  do  after  I  left  the  hospital  ^v.s  to  get  an  entire  new 
suit.     Oh,  iiow  I  did  then  wish  for  my  own  tailor  at 
aome    ^  I  could  not  find  anything  in  the  whole  city  to 
equa  lus    cut."    In  desperation  I  had  to  get  some  clothes 
like  Bi  I  wore    and  I  was  a  sight  when  I  got  them  on! 
When  I  looked  into  the  glas.  I  had  to  have  Bill  introduce 
me  to  the  fellow  who  looked  back  at  me.     I  didn't  know 
him   although  Bill  said  it  was  myself.    What  made  it  so 
much  worse  was  that  as  soon  as  I  got  the  clothes  on  I 
had  to  get  my  hair  cut-the  first  time  for  two  or  three 
years-and  get  a  new  hat  and  shoes.     I  don't  know  how 
I  appeared  to  other  people,  but  I  certainlv  looked  like  a 
sight     to  myself.     But.  then,  as  people  did  not  look  at 
me  any  more,  as  they  had  at  first,  I  began  to  think  it 
might  possibly  be  all  right,  but  I  could  not  help  dreading 

homeT'  '  '"  ^  ''^''^'^  ^''^'  '^  ^'''  "^'^  ^^"  ^^''^^  ^' 
By  sitting  up  late  and  getting  up  earlv.  I  soon  got  used 
to  myself,  and  began  to  think  a  good  bit  of  the  "New 
Kiihe.  epecially  when  the  ^  TTertberns  told  Bill  after 
we  had  been  there  to  see  the.-.  Uiat  "thev  had  no  idea  that 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


Ruben  was  so  fiiic-loul 


kin 


S-"  i-  could  not  help  feeling  the 
coniphment,  even  though  1  knew  it  was  the  clothes  they 
were  admiring  all  the  tune.  I  was  finer  looking  in  the 
old,  but  if  they  liked  the  new  better  I  would  be  content. 

1  make  it  a  point  to  always  fulfill  a  promise.     1  had 
promised  the  great  man  1  met  the  day  I  came  to  New 
^ork  that  when  I  found  Bill  J  would  let  him  know.     I 
therefore  wrote  to  him-this  great  man,  the  after-dinner 
speakcr-that  15111  and  I  had  found  each  other,  but  that 
It  was  a  question  as  to  which  of  us  had  reallv  done  the 
finding.     "At  any  rate."'  1  wrote,  "we  are  found,  and  are 
very  happy."     I  told  him  I  had  had  a  number  of  adven- 
tures since  the  day  I  met  him ;  wrote  him  a  long  letter,  as 
he  had  been  so  sociable  that  day,  that  I  knew^  he  would 
l3€  real  glad  to  hear  from  me.     When  I  told  l>>ill  all  this 
he  looked  at  me  for  a  minute  or  two  without  saving  a 
word.    And  then  all  he  said  was:     "Rube,  vou  will  learn 

if  you  stay  long  enough  !     Do  you  suppose  - 

will  remember  even  having  seen  vou?  Xo,  Rube.  He 
may  remember  the  stories,  but  has'long  ago  forgotten  the 
teller  of  them."  \\d\,  the  next  day.  when  I  got  a  letter 
from  this  great  man,  written  bv  himself  instead  of  by 
machinery.  ]]ill  looked  at  me  for  two  or  three  more  min- 
utes, when  I  told  him  about  it.  then  stopped  short  with : 
"Rube,  you'll  do:  you'll  get  on  in  New  York!" 

"His  Highness."  as  I  called  him,  had  not  onlv  remem- 
bered the  "teller"  of  the  stories,  but  had  remembered  his 
own  promise,  that  he  would  Invite  me  to  a  dinner  that  T 
might  learn  how  after-dinner  speaking  was  done.  He 
said  that  the  "Hilarious  Sons  of  Kamskatka."  of  which 
country,  among  numerous  others,  he  was  a  descendant, 
during  a  part  of  each  winter  season,  would  give  a  grand' 
dinner  on  the  following  week,  and  that  he 'had  secured 
tickets  for  myself  and  a  friend.    "\\  mild  I  come?" 


^ 


u 


'i 


t 


■) 


if 


'4 


i  \ 


156 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


la 


I^^H^I 

f 

lii'i 

t 

MM 

'1 

^Hilj  1 

4 

He  had  a  part  of  the  alpliabet  in  one  corner  of  his 
letter,  the  bottom  left-hand  corner,  "R,  S  P  V  "     I  could 
make  out  the  first  three  without  any  trouble-''Rite  Soon, 
Please,    but  the  "V."  I  stopped  on.     I  could  nut  decide 
what  he  meant.     I  Vote,  however,  at  once,  and  when  I 
saw  Bill  he  said  I  had  done  just  right,  but  would  not  tell 
me  what  the  '^V."  meant-unless  it  was  the  price  of  the 
ticket.      Bill  had  a  way  of  saying  these  things.    After  a 
long  while  it  occurred  to  me  that  he  had  said,  when  he 
invited  me  to  come  to  New  York:    n'es.  Rube,  come  to 
the  city.     I  will  show  you  the  sights,  and  have  fun  with 
you !  '    Was  his  manner  of  replving  to  me  "having  fun"? 
It  made  me  think  very  carcful'lv  whenever  I  conversed 
with  him,  and  he  had  very  little  "fun  with  me"  after  that 
Bill  IS  a  good  fellow,  but  he  does  see  the  "fun  side"  of 
life,  if  any  man  ever  did.     I  used  often  to  wonder  if  he 
could  be  a  good  business  man,  and  yet  be  so  fond  of  a 
joke.     I  only  wondered,  however,  up  to  the  day  I  first 
called  on  him  in  his  office,  why  he  was  so  cold  and  busi- 
nesslike that  when  I  started  in  on  a  joke  he  froze  it  solid 
right  in  the  middle.     I  never  yet  have  finished  that  joke 
nor  even  started  one  in  his  office  since. 

I  invited  Bill  to  go  with  me  to  the  dinner,  but  he  had 
an  engagement  for  that  evening.  I  then  asked  the  Re- 
porter, as  Bill  had  told  me  thai  reporters  never  refuse  a 
dinner.  He  accepted.  He  said  he  was  used  to  dinners 
and  would  tell  me  how  to  act  if  I  needed  anv  instnictions. 
In  the  first  place,  you  will  need  a  dress  suit,  which  you 
can  hire  for  the  occasion.  There  are  places  in  the  city 
where  you  can  hire  a  suit  for  one  night  or  as  long  as  vou 
want  it."  a       ^ 

"You  don't  mean,"  said  I,  "that  one  man  will  wear  a 
suit  of  clothes  which  perhaps  a  hundred  other  men  have 
worn  before,  do  you  ?" 


MY    FRIEXD    BILL. 


157 


"Oh,  yes,  tliat  is  very  common." 

"VV'ell,"  said  1,  "it  is  too  common  for  mc.  If  I  have  to 
wear  a  dress  suit  and  cannot  wear  my  own,  then  I  will 
not  ^o  out  where  dress  suits  are  rujuired."  I  might  not 
need  such  a  suit  again  in  my  life,  but  I  was  so  set  on  go- 
ing to  the  dinner  of  the  "Hilarious  Sons  of  Kamskatka" 
that  I  would  go  and  have  one  made. 

^    "But,"  said  I.  -it  will  he  impossible  to  have  it  finished 
m  tune.     The  dinner  is  only  one  week  off." 

The  Reporter  seemed  nuich  anuised  at  this,  to  me    in- 
surmountable obstacle. 

"Why,  Rube."  said  he,  "there  are  places  in  New  York 
where  you  can  order  a  suit  one  day  and  get  it  the  next." 

This  was  a  revelation.     My  own  tailor,  at  Highmont 
vyould  thmk  he  had  done  well  to  finish  an  ordinarv  suit  of 
clothes  m  four  weeks,  but,  then,  much  of  his  time'is  taken 
up  with  his  barbering  and  hcrse  doctoring. 

I  was  quite  busy  after  ilie  suit  came,  trving  it  on  and 
getting  used  to  it.  I  had  never  even  seen  a  dress  suit  l)e- 
fore.  and  felt  so  strange  that  I  was  sure  I  never  could  feel 
easy  in  it,  but  before  the  night  of  iKe  dinner  T  was  sur- 
prised how  comfortable  I  felt.  T  was  sure  I  would  have 
difficulty  in  proving  my  identity  to  the  great  after-dinner 
speaker,  as  I  looked  no  more  like  the  Rube  he  saw  than 
the  old  Kamskatkans  did  like  their  hilarious  sons 
A|V  hen  I  am  utterly  at  a  loss  to  know  how  to  descril^c  any- 
thing, I  make  it  a  point  not  to  describe  it.  This  dinner 
was  one  of  those  "anythings."  I  was  bewildered.  I  had 
never  seen  a  dinner  like  it.  It  was  not  what  there  was  to 
eat-for  that  matter,  there  was  nothing  like  as  much  as 
i^lenora  has  for  an  every  Sundav  dinner,  but  the  decora- 
tion of  the  hall,  the  glare  of  lights,  the  music  hidden  awav 
Denind  a  bower  of  ferns  and  flowers,  the  elegant-looking 
men  who  surrounded  the  tables,  and  a  hundred  other 


M 


. 


ill  ■ 

^V  i  i 

4»  I  1 

i 


m 


i;8 


MY   FklKXD    DILL. 


lX)ints  of  interest  tliat  made  it 


m' 


U 


\$- 


II 


When  all  the  tables  were  tilled  a  I 


seem  so  strange  to  me. 


nge  number  of  other 


gentlemen  came  in,  but  when  1  saw  this  last  nunil>er  carry 
ing  dishes  and  bottles  and  helping  those  seated  at  the 
tabtr^.  T  turned  to  the  Reiwrter  and  asked  him  why  they 
-I'ould  O.J  this,  "Why  are  they  not  seated,  too?"  I  asked. 

When  the  Reporter  had  finished  a  smile  which  he  had 
started  in  on  at  my  question,  he  told  me  that  this  last  num- 
ber were  the  waiters. 

*'lhat  cann'  '  "  said  T.  "for  see,  they  arc  wearing 
dress  suits,  too.  Waiters  do  not  dress  like  gentlemen  do 
they?" 

"Oh.  yes!"  he  said. 

"Then  tell  me,"  I  begged,  "how  can  you  tell  the  gen- 
tlemen from  the  waiters  ?" 

"You  cannot  very  well  at  the  beginning  of  a  dimier,  but 
at  the  close,  it  is  not  at  all  difficult,  as  the  sober  ones  arc 
the  waiters." 

He  also  said:  "This  remark  is  r  -  original,  but.  original 
things  are  never  looked  for  at  dinners." 

I  was  glad  when  the  dining  was  over  Tt  was  the  after- 
dinner  part  for  which  T  had  bought  my  dress  suit. 

The  chairman  said  many  g(X)d  things,  which  th  liner,'^ 
applauded  most  heartily.  lie  was  followed  by  a  number 
of  speakers,  b  t  every  one  seemed  impatient  to  hear  the 
fcicat  laan  of  u'le  evening,  my  friend  or  whose  invitation 
I  had  come.  He  was  api)lauded  the  moment  his  name 
was  mentioned.  He  an,  .  .smiling,  and  began  talking  so 
easy  and  went  along  so  smoothly  that  I.  who  knew  noth- 
ing of  the  art,  cc-  -id  jcc  why  he  \^•as  known  as  a  great  en- 
tertamer.^  w  when  he  began  illustrating  his  points 
with  storic  li;  he  compan  seemed  in  its  best  humor. 
Imagine  my  surprise,  though,  hen  I  heard  him  relating 
my  own  stories,  the  ones  I  hac 


>ld  him  the  dav  he 


m- 


till 

ill! 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


i5<> 


HI- 


vit<-  UK  imo  liis  house  on  l.iftl,  avcinu-.  Tlu^v  were 
m,n.    but  so  changed,  in  <|ress  a.„l  locality,  from  ,'e  ,i,„c 

I  l.a,l  heard  ol,|  l„cle  Dave  Carter  au,l  Uave  S. r  ."^ 

then,,  m  Carters  tavern,  ihat  1  „uuUl  scarcely  have 
known  then,  ,f  I  ha.l  met  then,  alone.  A  nun.her  of  those 
around  ,ne  seen,e,l  quite  as  surprised  .is  I.     ( )ne  ,„-,„  at 

tnat  story.     I  wonder  where  he  sot  i(  i" 
"Yes,    .said  another,  ••!  ha.l  ren,ark-ed  the  same  thh.p." 
It  s  the  hrst  t,n,e  fve  heard  several  of  his  stoiuvs.  .\n<| 
do  you  not,co,  he  tells  then,  as  ,i,„„,.h  he  knows  they  are 

thaV'iwT  ""^  ""^P^"y  •'«  constantly  enpaRecl  a,>,,la„,li, 
Ha   they  must  have  heen  tir.d,  in  ho<ly  hut  „o    ,,  n,in,l, 

by  the  t,„,e  he  had  finished.     lie  did  talk  so  readily  tha 
after-d  nner  speak,nfr  just  then  .seemed    „  „,e  the  easiest 

th,ng  ,„  the  worhl  to  do.     When  he  sat  down  the  d,I  r 
man  arose  and  said:    "Gentlen,™.  we  have  tcnifrht   v  t , 
us  a  stranger  from  a  neighlx-ring  State.     He  is,  no  donht 
unknown  to  n,ost  of  you,  save  possibly  by  ca  .,al  new 
paper  .nention,  but  that  n,atters  little.     Even  the  create  t 
among  us  were  once  unknown.     We  welco.ne  to  our  c  tv 

nnrk  i"'v  "^Tl^^'""  "'"  ''^  ''''''"'''  '"  -^e  his 
niark  in  acw  York. 

from  nf  ^'"' }'''''  f!  '"  ^''''  "'^'  '^''''  "'-'^  ^•"^"^er 

now  one  loves  his  o>'n  neonle  best  uh^n  l-,^  ;    •  .t 

State,  far  from  hon,  .  '"  ''  '"  '"°^'^^'' 

-This  youno-  man  is  quite  an  nri^innl  character,  and  is 
^'7^^^^^'  a  poet.     Yes.  gentlemen,  a  poet  *' 

I  was  more  desirous  now  than  ever  to  n.eet  him    for  T 
al.^s  had  a  kindly  feelin,  towa  d  poets,  as  L^^: s^/ 

•orlrf  %;;  TT'   V  '  "^  ^'^^'  '""^  ^^^^^  ^'"^S  i"  this 

-^rld.    J"st    hen  I  saw,  for  the  first  tim^        'ward  De- 


h! 


M 


;il 


'\ 


If; 


i     i  ■ 


Mi 


•  f . 


i6o 


MY  FRIEND   BILL. 


it 
III 


i  m 


Hertbern  sitting  behind  tlie  chairman.  Even  then  it  did 
not  occur  to  me  what  was  coming,  ajid  it  was  fortunate 
that  I  (lid  not  know,  else  1  had  not  iiad  the  strength  to 
get  up,  as  I  do  get  scared  weak  so  readily.  Those  were 
my  running  thoughts  as  he  talked. 

"You  will  now  be  entertained  by  our  young  poet  friend 
from  Highmont,  Pennsylvania,  Mr.  A.  Rubui  Hicken- 
lo(  j>er;  gentlemen,  JMr.  Ilickenloopcr." 

I  must  have  "lost  my  head,"  as  they  say,  for  I  was  up 
on  my  feet  talking  before  I  knew  where  I  was  or  what  1 
was  doing,  but  once  up,  I  would  never  back  out. 

"Gentlemen,"  I  began,  "I  would,  indeed,  have  to  be  a 
most  original  character  to  l>e  able  to  respond  to  a  call  for 
an  after-dinner  speech  at  the  first  meeting  of  this  kind  I 
had  ever  heard  of,  much  less  attended.  1  came  to-night 
to  have  my  curiosity  gratified.  I  came  as  a  guest,  not  as 
a  victim.  I  came  to  listen,  not  to  talk.  The  chairman 
has  spoken  of  me  as  a  ix>et.  His  opinion  is  sadly  at  vari- 
ance with  that  of  my  father.  My  father,  a  highly  edu- 
cated man  for  his  localitx ,  but  whose  education  runs  en- 
tirely  in  a  prose  direction,  once  said  to  me,  'Rul)en,  poets 
are  of  no  use  to  the  world.  They  are  a  shiftless,  weolc 
set.  A  poet  is  always  poor.  Rather  than  have  a  son  of 
mine  a  poet,  I  would  see  him  for  the  last  time  I  would 
feel  Hke  disinheriting  him.'  My  reply  was  at  least  char- 
acteristic of  a  poet,  if  naught  else.  While  a  poet  may  not 
care  what  is  said  to  him.  he  will  never  disclaim  his  muse. 
'Father,  do  you  not  know  that  I  write  poetry?'  The  look 
that  came  over  his  face  ought  to  have  stopped  me  right 
there,  but  it  did  not.  'Yes,'  T  continued,  *I  write  poetry, 
quite  pretty  verse.  I  will  show  you  a  poem  I  have  just 
completed.  I  am  sure  it  will  please  you.'  It  was  very 
fine.  It  was  on  'The  Raven  Locks  of  Lily  Ann,'  a  near- 
by neighbor  s  daughter.     I  brought  the  poem  from  the 


r|i 


MV   FRIEND   PILL. 


I6l 


next    room.     II,    tock    it.   looked   it  carofullv   ;'r  >uH, 
sniiK  and  opened  In.  arms.    'My  son.  ,ny  dear    :    ..son.' 
Kubcn  ;  come  to  your  father',  arms'     I  came  (juickly,  oh 
so  pleased  to  liiink  1  had  won  iiim  over,  hut  no  wonder   I 
thought-the  poem  was  so  fine.     I  got  to  his  arms,  but  he 
kept  right  on  talking  when   1  thought  he  had  quite  fin- 
ished.    'Ves.  my  hoy.  ,ny  own   Ruben,  that   (he  didn't 
nanie  ,t.  only  called  it  "that"),  lifts  a  load  from  mv  heart 
it  shows  me  that  you  are  no  poet,  and  never  will  be      I 
shall  never  dismherit  you  for  poetical  reasons.'     Mv  little 
heart  was  so  crushed  that  the  Muse  did  not  <lare  look  me 
in  the  face  for  a  long  while.     When  she  did.  mv  sister  got 
the  benefit.     Anna  was  one  of  those  sweet,  gentle  sisters, 
whom  the  small  l,oy  loves  to  go  to  with  all  his  cares  and 
joys,     h  was  the  'joys'  that  took  me  to  her  on  this  one 
particular  occasion.     I  had  written  another  imxmii.  written 
It  and  wept  over  some  of  the  more  pathetic  verses.     I  did 
not  dare  show  it  to  father,  for  this  time  ]  knew  I  would 
not  get  ofi-.  as  I  had  before;  this  was  a  real  ix>em-one  of 
the  disinheriting  variety.     No,  father  should  not  see  this 
one       I  would  read  it  to  Sister  Anna  alone.      I  did      I 
read  it  to  her,  or  rather  began  it.     I  reached  the  third 
verse  of  the  thirteen,  when  I  saw  a  sadness  come  over  the 
ace  of  (lear  sister  Anna.     I  knew  the  pathetic  part  was 
haying  us  effect,  but  much  sooner  than  I  had  expected 

brother  Rube,  dear  brother  Rube.  Do  you  love 
me  ^  Gentlemen.  I  have  heard  that  question  nianv  times 
since  and  under  various  circumstances,  but  it'  never 
sounded  as  it  did  then. 

''I  said:  'Yes,  sister  Anna.  I  do  love  you!'     I  did  and 
do  yet. 

^>he  said,  with  tears  trickling  along  down  the  sides  of 
ner  voice : 

"  'Well.  Ruben,  my  sweet,  kind  brother,  if  you  love  me. 


f  ; 


M 


i  f 


1  :  ! 


r  >i 


mh 


ill 


m 


i  I 
11  ll 

p 


1 62 


MY   FRIEND   BILL 


and  love  me  truly,  please  don't  read  any  more  of  that 
stuff,'  And  yet,  gentlemen,  your  chairman  has  intro- 
duced me  to  you  as  a  poet.  It  will  show  you  how  little 
chairmen  know  about  things  in  general,  and  poets  in  par- 
ticular.    Some  of  the  stories  told  us  this  evening  reminds 

me  of "  and  then  I,  having  gotten  started  and  warmed 

up  by  kindly  applause,  went  on  and  told  them  a  number  of 
stories  which  I  had,  fortunately,  not  told  to  the  great 
man.  I  never  will  know  how  I  did  it,  but  1  talked  in 
fairly  good  voice  and  without  any  hesitation  or  break 
from  start  to  finish.  When  I  was  through,  Edward 
came  over  and  .said  he  had  only  asked  the  chairman  to 
call  on  me  to  see  if  I  could  even  get  on  my  feet. 

"I  had  not  the  least  notion  of  your  being  able  to  talk  at 
all.  much  less  make  one  of  the  best  speeches  of  the 
dinner." 

The  great  man  came  up  while  Edward  and  1  were  talk- 
ing, and  said  he  would  have  to  look  to  his  laurels  or  I 
would  pluck  them.  As  I  had  expected,  he  was  greatly 
surprised  at  the  change  in  my  appearance.  1  thanked 
him. 

"It  shows,"  said  1.  "how  great  a  speaker  you  are,  that 
a  boy  newly  arrived  from  a  remote  village  could,  by  the 
inspiration  of  your  words,  be  able  to  make  his  first  after- 
dinner  speech  without  failing  from  very  fright." 

The  Reporter  wrote  up  the  dinner,  and  to  compensate 
me  for  the  invitation,  I  sui)posc,  he  spoke  very  well  of  my 
speech.  I  sent  the  paper,  with  th.e  notice  of  it  marked,  to 
sister  Anna.  Bill  said  to  me  next  day,  that  when  Ed- 
ward told  at  home  alK)ut  my  si)eech,  that  Mr.  DeHertlxTU 
remarked : 

"Edward.  Ruben  must  stay  in  Xew  York."  As  usual, 
however,  I  cared  more  for  what  Helen  said  than  for  all 
the  other  compliments. 


MY   FRIEND  BILL. 


163 


"Oh,  Mr.  RulKMi,  Kdvvard  said  that  voii  said  you  were 
not  a  poet,  and  you  are  a  poet.  Don't  vou  knmv  ahout 
tJiat  bad,  good  man  what  saved  the  Httle  children  '^  That 
was  ix)etry,  wasn't  it?  'Course  it  was.  And  lie  said  vou 
old  some  awfully  funny  stories,  and  made  evervhodv 
augh  all  the  tnne.  He  said  he  only  had  the  man  as^k  vou 
to  speak  just  to  get  a  joke  on  you,  but  he  said  he  was 
glad  It  was  on  him.  My  papa  wants  vou  to  be  a  law ver- 
won  t  you  be  a  lawyer,  Mr.  Ruben  r' 

"i  may  some  time,  but  not  now.  I  will  have  to  go  back 
to  the  mountain  country  in  a  very  little  while,  and  I  may 
never  come  back  to  New  York,  but  1  will  often  think  of 

-You  ,lon-t  mean  ncvcr-ncvor !  Vo,>  .lon't  ..,«,„  .Iu,t 
you  w.ll  Ro  axvay  off  and  not  come  back  to  see  us  in  -ill 
your  ,vholo  life?  If  you  go  a«a>-.  I  will  make  E.hvar.l 
or  nty  papa  take  me  to  see  v-ou :  then  I  can  see  Pauline  an.l 
Evelyn  May  a,Kl  tl,e  cousins.  Oh.  yes,  and  the  big  dogs 
and  the  rag  doll,  and  I  „ill  make  you  come  back  to  Xew 
York  with  „,e.  cause  yon  saved  n,e.  and  now  vou  are  mv 
M.ster  Ruben,  and  1  won't  let  you  stay  in  tbe'tnountain,;. 
lonsM,  W  all.e  says  I  am  a  little  fairy,  and  vou  know  little 
fames  make  big  men  min.l  just  what  theV  tell  them    if 

>-•  'Ion  t.tbeht.le  fairies  just  turn  the' biR  men  i  no 
elephants.     You  .lou't  want  to  be  a  big  elephant.  ,1,.  vou, 

"^y'S'.^eS;.;';:r:'l:?! '-  ^■-"  «"^" '-  -^ 

"I  only  ntean  for  a  little  bit  of  a  while,  till  vou  would 
a>  you  wotdd  stay  „,  New  York.     Oh,  Mist'er  Ruben. 

s ' ' ,;; wT;:.!" f..^"-^>-' '  =>- 1^^ --^—t cryi„g. 


4' 

i 

\ 

>  \ 

?! 

1      '    4 


iWk^  ,  'i 


So  T  told  her  I  would  not 


go  away  fnr  a  whole  week. 


164 


MY  FRIEND   BILL. 


"But,  Mister  Ruben,  a  week  is  such  a  little  while.  I 
want  you  to  stay  forever,"  and  she  could  scarcely  be  in- 
duced to  let  me  go,  for  fear,  as  she  said,  I  would  run  away 
to  the  big  mountains. 


Iff- 
11?*: 


m  ■•  ''f«' 


:i:. 


rf" 


l.ff 


CHAPTER  XXXI II. 

/  see  strange  men,  many  of  them.  T/icv  bear  the  maiden 
azvay.  I  hey  eonduet  the  man  and  zcoman  to  the  foot 
of  the  mountain. 

Two  very  important  thinjrs  occurred  tlat  one  remain- 
ing week  of  my  stay  in  New  York.    Rather.  Edward  and 
I  heard  of  them  that  week.     Both  of  them  were  of  vast 
import,  as  they  changed  the  course  of  our  two  hves     Ed- 
ward   liad    from    time    to    time    received    letters    from 
Professor  Blake,  his  hieroglyphical  friend.   The  professor 
would  often  write  a  whole  page  of  birds  and  figures  for 
Edward    to    translate.     He  would  consult  with  an  old 
Egyptologist,   whom   he   had   met  through  the  professor 
and  If  there  were  parts  he  could  not  translate,  this  old 
man  would  read  it  for  him.    This  last  week  of  which  I 
speak  Edward  received  a  long  letter  from  the  professor 
who  was  then  in  Milan,  Italy.    He  had  been  there  but  one 
week  at  th^  time,  he  wrote.     "Here  is  a  matter  which 
may  interest  you,"  and  then,  instead  of  writing  it  as  he 
should  hare  done,  he  put  it  in  hieroglvphics.     He  did  not 
know  how  important  it  was  to  Edward,  else  he  would 
have  writteti  it  in  the  plainest  of  words  rather  than  in 
the  most  di«cult.     Edward    puzzled    for   a    long   while 
over  It  and  could  make  out  but  little  further  than  •  "Have 
seen  queen,  tomb,  dutiful,  in  Milan."     He  had  to  write 
„„.,   ^.^.,,  as.  ot  cuursc,  no  sign  could  represent  it. 
What  could  he  mean  by  'queen,'  'tomb*?" 


-H 


i:: 


i66 


MY  FRIEND   BILL. 


I 


ti  I 


"I  see,  I  see!"  said  Edward.    ''He  has,  as  is  his  cus- 
tom, been  through  the  museums  of  Milan.     The  mummy 
of  the  beautiful  queen  of  the  tomb  had  been  brought  to 
that  city  and  is  now  in  one  of  its  museums.    Really,  Ru- 
ben, this  hieroglyphical  writing  is  not  all  bad.     It  is  like 
working  out  word  puzzles.     One  word  helps  you  on  to 
another.     Now  look,  Ruben.    You  see  this  figure?    Well, 
it  means  'queen' ;  but  wait  a  moment.    What  word  is  this 
before    'queen'?     It  has  the  sign  of  the  possessive,  but 
what  can  that  figure  mean?"  and  he  sat  buried  in  deep 
thought.     His  eyes  must  have  fallen  to  the  bottom  of  the 
page,  where  the  professor  had  signed  his  name,  which 
he  always  did  with  '"Your  Friend."      There    was    that 
same  word,  "Your."     Edward  seemed  startled.     "What! 
'Your'— yes,  it  is:  'Your  queen.'     Ruben,  what  can  he 
mean?     But,  then—no — that  cannot  be.     He  must  mean 
that,  as  I  was  the  first  to  find  this  mummy  with  him,  he 
calls  it  mine,  my  queen.     No,  Ruben,  he  may  claim  the 
honor.     I  care  not  for  it.     i\Iy  queen  I  will  never  find. 
She  is  lost  to  me  forever."     I  would  write  the  professor 
never  again  tc  say  a  word  that  would  in  the  least  way 
call  up  in  Edward's  mind  the  woman  he  had  met  in  the 
strange  tomb.     Nothing  I  could  do  or  say  would  bring 
him  back  to  himself  after  one  of  these  words  had  been 
spoken.     On  every  other  subject  Edward  was  clear  and 
remarkably  bright  and  quick,  but  the  moment  his  mind 
'  was  called  to  the  'queen,'  as  he  called  her,  that  moment 
he  was  a  changed  being,  and  it  was  often  days  before  he 
would  l)e  himself  again.     All  this  time,  while  I  was  think- 
ing to  write  to  the  professor,  Edward  sat  brooding  over 
the  letter.     He    suddenly    started    up.      "Look,     Ruben, 
look!     Here    is    a    word  before  the  one  which  I  know 


mean?,  'beautiful.'     What  ca-i 


key  to  the  story.     It  is,  Ruben,  it  is,  for  it 


it  irxan?     It  may  he  the 


means  more. 


MY   FRIEND    BILL 


167 


Oh.  I  see  it  all— all.  If  it  is  only  trui'.  ilie  world  for  nie 
will  again  have  its  bri.j4luness.  Jt  has  been  a  dark  uurld 
sinee  I  lost  my  queen.  Listen,  Ruben,  here  is  what  I 
learn :  'Have  seen  your  Queen  of  the  Tomb.  Even  more 
beautiful.  In  Milan.'  '.More  beautiful"  ean  only  apply  to 
a  living  queen,  and  my  friend  knows  that  there  is  for  me 
but  one  living  queen,  and  he  has  seen  her  in  Milan.  1  am 
wasting  time.  1  will  hurry  to  my  old  Egyptologist,  and 
find  if  I  have  translated  aright." 

He  was  away  but  a  short  time.     When  he  returned,  his 
face  wore  a  strange  expression.     I  lis  translation  ha<l  in 
the  main  been  correct,  but  the  old  scholar  had  made  it 
smoother  and  even    more    plain,  that  the  i)rotVssor  had 
seen  the  lady  whom  they  had  met  in  the  toml).     This  old 
man  I  had  seen  once  with  Edward,  who  had  gone  to  liim 
with  some  hieroglyphic  writings.     J  Ic  was  a  strange  man. 
His  skin  was  almost  like  parchment.     He  was  xery  old, 
he  looked  a  hundred  years,  but  his  eyes  seemed  strangely 
penetrating  and  even  brilliant.     He  seemed  to  look   far 
away  at  times,  as  though  he  were  reading  things  not  yet 
known  to  us.     On  this  last  occasion,  lylward  told  me.  the 
old  man  was  strangely  impressed  by  the  professor's  let- 
ter.    "When  he  had  read  it.  he  sat  long  and  looked  away 
ofr,  as  you  know  he  does.  Ruben,  and,  turning  to  me.  he 
said:     'She  is  not  in  Milan  now.     I  see  her  away  in  a 
deep  mountain  pass.     A  man  and  a  woman  are  witii  her ; 
the  man  has  a  military  bearing.     I    see    strange    men. 
many  of  them.     They  bear  the  maiden  away.     Thev  con- 
duct the  man   and  woman,  bound,  to  the    foot    of  the 
mountain.     They  release  them,  and  when  the  man  would 
lurn  back,  as  though  to  follow  and  bring  back  his  child, 
the  leader  of  the  strange  men.  a  powerful  fellow,  but  with 
KinvliV  manner,  pcrsuacics  lum  that  it  would  be  useless. 
The  man  and  woman  return  in  their  carriage  to  Milan.     I 


i  < 

II 

H 


'li 


'm 


i68 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


see  a  young  man.  He  is  going  toward  the  mountain  pass, 
as  though  to  rescue  the  maiden.'  At  this  point."  said  Ed- 
ward,  the  old  man  stopped,  looked  at  me  for  fully  a 
minute.  There  seemed  almost^adness  on  his  face  as  he 
looked  away,  shaking  his  head.  Then  he  continued: 
The  powerful  fellow  meets  him ;  they  fight  with  swords  • 
the  young  man  is  slain,  and-but  all  now  is  black  I  see 
no  more.'  Nor  could  I  get  him  to  talk  further  He 
would  only  say:  'I  see  nothing.' 

"Ruben,  a  steamer  sails  to-morrow.     I  have  cabled  the 
Professor  that  I  will  go  on  it." 

I  tried  to  dissuade  him.     Tried  to  show  him  that  the 

old  man  could  not  see  any  more  into  the  future  than  we 

could,  but  all  to  no  purpose.     "Suppose,  again,"  said  I, 

tliat  he  could  read  aright.     Did  he  not  as  much  as  say 

that  you  would  be  slain  by  that  powerful  fellow?" 

"Ruben,  you  do  not  know  mc.  Did  I  know  I  would 
be  slam,  yet  would  I  try." 

He  sailed  the  next  d'ay,  as  though  to  visit  a  friend  in 
Milan,  a  count  whom  the  DeHertberns  had  entertained  at 
one  time  in  their  home. 


1 
r 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 


--^  loan  is  even  worse  than  a  gift.  A  gift  carries  with  it 
no  hope  of  a  return,  zvhilst  a  loan  dishonors  the  man 
who  fails  to  repay  it. 

It  was  now  the  evening  before  I  was  to  go  back  to  my 
home.     1  would  change  from  the  never-ceasing  noise  and 
hurry  of  New  York  to  the  ([uiet,  per.ceful  soHtude  of  the 
mountams,  where,  no  doubt,  I  would  remain,  a  good,  law- 
abiding  citizen,  for  the  rest  of  my  years.     My  friends  in 
the  city  would  think  of  me  for  a  while,  and  then  forget 
even  my  name.    Little  lielen  might  cry  herself  to  sleep  a 
few  nights,  as  for  a  favorite  |K:)ny  gone,  but  her  heart 
would  soon  go  on  loving  some  other  creature.     Young 
hearts  so  soon  forget.     I  uould  not  forget.     The  life  of 
solitude,  which  I  must  hereafter  live,  would  have  so  little 
m  it  of  a  pleasant  nature,  that  each  moment  of  my  stay  in 
the  city  would  be  a  picture  fixed  indeliblv  on  my  memory. 
And  often  in  the  after  days  I  would  turn  to  those  pic- 
tures, as  a  mind  relief  from  the  prosaic  drudgery  of  a 
farmer's  life.     Rill,  whose  life  work  was  laid  out  before 
him,  wouM  remain  in  Xew  York.     In  two  years  he  would 
!iiarry  Beatrice,  and  become  one  of  the  great  firm  of  Dc- 
Hertbern  &  Co.     I  might  even  visit  him,  but  no  return 
to  New  \ork  would  ever  be  like  my  first  remembrance  of 
It.     I  could  never  take  another  "first  cab  ride,"  the  full 

'   ~ '^'  avciiijv.,  Hunting  lor    that    avenue;    the 

museums  of  the  Bowery— aye.  the  Bowery  itself— would 

l6g 


III 


170 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


fii 


ifrl 


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i 


^1% 


be  an  old  story.     The  friends  of  the  boarchng-liouse  wonid 
all  be  scattered  and  gone,  leaving  only  my  memory  of 
them,  and  no  others  would  ever  be  like  my  first  friends 
there.     I  would  never  again  meet  with  an  accident  under 
such  pleasant  auspices.     Helen  might  be  a  grown  voung 
lady  on  my  return,  and  grown  young  ladies  had  'never 
cared  for  me.     She  nnght  look  upon  me  as  a  vague  dream 
of  childhood,  or,  at  most,  as  Bill's  friend.     No,  this  last 
night  of  my  first  sojourn    among    the    friends  and  the 
pleasures  of  New  York  would  to  a  great  extent  end  all  the 
real  joys  of  the  city.     No  after  visit  would  be  the  same. 
I  w'ould  ever  compare  it  with  my  first,  and  subsequent 
visits  always  lose  by  comparison.     At  times,  during  this 
retrospect,  I  would  ask  myself:    Has  this  visit  been  a 
profitable  one  to  me?     Would  not  my  life  have  been  a 
bappier  one  had  I  not  known  the  joys  of  this  new  exist- 
ence?     Would  not  the  mountain  home  of  my  boyhood, 
which  had  ever  seemed  bright,  with  nothing  to' contrast  it 
with,  seem  dull  and  lonely?     Would    not    the  good  but 
commonplace  friends  of  Highmont  lose  bv  my  knowledge 
of  a  people  wholly  different  from  them  bv  reason  of  su- 
perior advantages  ?     Would  not  the  laughing  brooks  bab- 
ble on  less  musically  to  my  ear  than  they  had  of  yore? 
Would  not  the  once  great  things  of  Highmont  lose  all 
their  greatness  now?     Aye,  my  brain  was  in  a  whirl.     I 
thought,  and  yet  could  think  no  thought  to  a  conclusion. 
I  fain  would  cease  trying  to  solve  the  problem.     I  would 
go  back  to  the  old  home,  and  make  the  best  of  the  life  I 
would  have  to  lead  there.     I    would    think    of  the  new 
friends,  and  try  to  go  on  loving  the  old.     I  would  tr>^  to 
show  them  no  change.     I  would  do  mv  dutv  as  I  saw  it, 
and  at  the  end  lie  down  in  the  old  church-vard,  and  be 
forgotten  with  the  rest. 

Bill  and  T  were  due  at  the  DeHertberns  for  dinner.     I 


MY  FRIEND   BILL. 


171 


sat  so  long^  in  tliinking-  over  my  home-going  that  I  had 
but  little  time  to  dress  before  he  would  call  for  me.  I 
was  getting  all  the  good  out  of  my  dress  suit  that  I  could, 
as  I  would  have  no  use  for  it  at  Ilighmont.  Bill  would 
not  let  me  wear  it  except  in  the  evening,  else  I  had  got- 
ten more  good  out  of  it.  Jn  some  ways,  I  used  to  think, 
Bill  had  peculiar  notions,  hut  in  the  end  I  found  he  had 
learned  much. 

That  dinner  was  the  most  agreeably  sad  one  I  have  ever 
sat  down  to.  The  more  I  enjoyed  myself,  the  worse  I 
felt.  Agreeable  from  their  kindly  manner  toward  me, 
and  sad  in  thinking  it  was  the  last  I  tnight  partake  with 
them.  Mr.  Dei  lertbern,  ever  courteous,  iiad  never  shown 
the  same  consideration  for  me  before.  I  could  not  but 
thmk  that  he  must  respect  me  for  the  refusal  to  accept  his 
offer  of  a  course  in  law  school.  I  scarcelv  expected  him 
to  speak  of  it,  but  he  did. 

"Ruben,"  said  lie,  **no  doubt  you  will  wonder  that  I 
again  refer  to  my  wish  that  you  shouki  take  a  course  in 
law.  but  I  cannot  allow  you  to  throw  away  an  opportunity 
to  enter  the  one  field  for  which  I  think  you  so  well  fitted. 
Had  you  the  means.  I  would  not  have  offered  to  assist 
you,  but  when  I  could  so  easily  gratify  a  wish,  and  at  the 
same  time  help  you  to  attain  your  own  desire.  I  felt  almost 
as  though  you  had  done  me  a  wrong  in  refusing.  Now, 
Ruben.  I  respect  you  more  than  T  can  tell,  and  I  would  not 
urge  you  further,  hut  T  have  thought  that  you  might  pos- 
sibly accept  my  offer  as  a  loan,  to  be  returned  at  a  future 
time.     That  will  not  be  accepting  money  as  a  gift." 

"Mr.  DeHertbem."  I  replied,  ''a  loan  is  even  worse  than 
a  gift.  A  gift  carries  with  it  no  expectation  of  a  return, 
whilst  a  loan  dishonors  the  man  who  fails  to  repay  it. 
Should  I  accept  the  loan,  and  for  some  reason,  possibly 
one  which  T  could  not  govern  or  control,  be  unable  to 


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172 


MY    FRIEND  BILL. 


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k(>! 


give  It  back,  It  wcnild  make  my  life  far  more  i:nbcarablc 
than  a  lite  buried  away  among  the  stony  hills  of  High- 
rnont.  'J'heie  would  l.c  no  pleasure  in  life  for  me  to  feci 
I  ov/ed  that  which  I  could  not  pav.  The  debt  might  be 
forgiven,  but  the  humility  I  would  feel  most  deeply  If 
I  could  tell  you  how  much  J  prize  vour  offer  you  would 
not  feel  hurt  at  my  refusal  of  it.'"  ]  .hall  not  luiget  the 
strange  look  he  gave  me,  but  he  never  again  reverted  to 
the  subject. 

When  the  dinner  was  over  we  went  into  the  music- 
room,  all  save  Mr.  Dellertbern,  who  went  up  to  the 
hbrary.  It  seemed  so  pretty  to  see  Mrs.  DeHcrtl>ern 
seated  at  the  piano,  playing  accomi)aninients  for  Beatrice 
and  Bdl.  I  was  pleased  to  hear  how  beautifully  thev 
sang  together.  Their  voices  blended  in  the  sw-etest  har- 
mony. They  sang  many  songs,  but  there  was  one  I  have 
so  often  thought  of  since.  I  only  remember  the  last  verse 
and  chonis.  I  am  not  even  sure  I  have  the  .iglit  name, 
but  I  have  always  called  it 

"rRKT'fV  MOTH." 

"Be  content  with  your  lot 

Pretty  one,  pretty  one. 
And  make  use  of  the  joys  given  you ; 
Do  not  strive  to  gain  wealth  or  fame. 

Pretty  one. 
If  no  pleasures  they  bring  unto  you, 
Then  take  all  with  joy 
That  you  find  on  life's  path, 
And  be  thankful,  though  always  not  bright. 

Chonis. 
"For  many  things  in  this  world 
That  look  bright,  pretty  moth, 


wnw 


MY  FRIEND   BILL.  17, 

Only  dazzle  to  lead  us  astray. 
Mai       'lings  in  this  world 
T!ia    look  bri^^l It,  pretty  moth, 
On      *'  izzle  to  lead  us  astray." 

It  made  me  feci  almost  resigned  to  my  having-  to  leave 
Aew  \ork.  I  had  seen  a  good  deal  of  "dazzle"  in  this 
great  nty.  and  it  was  possibly  well  that  1  was  going  away. 

Helen  had  not  left  my  side  all  the  evening.  Just  l>efore 
we  sat  doNvn  to  c'inner  sJie  !iad  whispered  to  me  that  if  I 
asked  h  r  ,„a  she  "might  let  her  eat  witii  the  big 

people,  jus:  once."     She  promised  to  be  the  ••gxx)(lest 

girl"  and  n.     to  "talk  even  a  little  bit."     It  seemed  really 
odd  to  watch  her  during  the  whole  dinner.     She  was  quiet 
the  longest  time  I  had  ever  before  known  her  to  be— and 
It  wasn't  a  relief  to  me,  either.     She  made  up  for  it  after 
we  had  gone  into  the  music-room.     When  the  singing 
had  ceased,  and  Bill  and  Beatrice  were  seated  for  a  game 
ot  chess,  Mrs.  Dellertbern  looking  on,  Helen    aid:  "Oh 
Mr.  Ruben,  1  am  so  tired  being  still,  when  I  wanted  to 
talk  every  little    minute.      Tousin  Wallie  says  you  are 
really  and  truly  going  away  to-morrow  forever  and  ever 
I  am  on'y  a  little  girl,  but  I  know  that  means  a  long,  hyim 
time.     Will  I  be  big  like  Beatrice  when  that  time  comes 
to  the  end.?" 

"I  do  not  know,  Helen,  how  long  it  will  be.  I  may 
never  come  to  the  city  again.  You  must  not  feel  bad 
when  I  go.  You  can  play  with  your  prettv  dollies  and  go 
driving  m  the  park,  and  soon  forget  alx)ut  Ruben."  When 
r  said  this,  trying  to  divert  her  mind,  as  though  my  going 
was  of  little  importance,  it  had  the  other  effect  She 
almost^^  screamed  out  crying.  Her  mother  ran  to  her 
with:  "Helen,  what  can  be  tliv  matt^T?" 

"Oh,  mamma,  mamma,  Mr.  ::i:ben  said  1  would  forget 


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174 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


him  when  he  goes  away,  when  he  saved  me  and  got 
hurled  hisself.  I  can  never,  never,  never  forget  him, 
mamma ;  can  I,  mamma !  No,  Mr.  Ruben,  I  will  be  your 
Helen  forever  and  ever,  and  will  never  forget  vou !" 
And  as  she  threw  her  little,  chubby  arms  about  my  neck- 
she  cried:  ''I  will  love  you  always,"  and  would  scarcely 
let  go  when  her  mother  insisted  that  it  was  getting  late 
for  her  and  that  she  must  now  bid  Ruben  good-by. 

"Must  you  go,  Mr.  Ruben?  Won't  you  stay  and  be  a 
lawyer?  Papa  and  brother  Edward  want  you  to  so 
much,  for  I  hear  them  talking  about  you.''  I  could  argue 
with  men,  but  the  -leadings  of  this  little  child  made  me 
helpless.  I  could  not  reply.  All  I  could  say  was :  "Goofl- 
by,  Helen.    Ruben  will  never  forget  you." 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  DeHertbern  and  Beatrice  were  verv  kind 
in  their  wishes  for  my  success  when  bidding  me  good-bv. 
"Remember  now,  Ruben,"  said  Mr.  DeHertbern,  "if  ever 
you  need  a  friend,  under  any  and  all  circumst?nces.  you 
must  feel  free  to  call  on  me !     Will  you  promise  me  ?" 

"I  do  promise  most  heartily,  and  thank  you  for  vour 
wish  for  mv  welfare." 


CHAPTER   XXXV. 


Poor  old  Shyiuck!  The  oily  praise  ever  accorded  him, 
■z^'hen  he  is  gone,  is  the  epitaph  found  on  his  tomb, 
at  zi'hich  all  smile  as  they  pass.  lie  may  die  rich, 
but  seldom  mourned. 

Xo  doubt  the  reason  of  my  fear  of  money  obligations 
was  what  I  had  seen  at  home.  Father,  always  ambitious 
to  own  the  largest  farm  of  any  one  in  the  county,  had 
added  one  piece  after  another,  until  his  ambition  had 
reached  its  goal.  He  did  not  own  it,  although  everybody 
knew  it  as  his.  He  went  heavily  in  debt  in  order  to  secure 
the  land.  As  long  as  the  crops  were  good  he  kept  up  his 
interest  and  reduced  the  principal,  l)ut  for  three  years  the 
crops  had  regularly  failed.  The  interest  on  the  notes 
could  not  be  met  and  the  taxes  were  far  over  due.  The 
man  who  held  father's  notes  for  thousands  of  dollars  was 
one  of  those  careful,  judicious  men  found  in  almost  every 
communitv.  He  starts  on  nothing,  of  which  fact  he  is  so 
fond  of  lx)asting,  and  from  that  "nothing"  grinds  out,  not 
only  many  a  dollar  of  the  hard-working  farmer,  but 
often  the  life  of  the  farmer  himself.  This  modern  Shy- 
lock  does  not  begin  the  grinding  until  the  "grist"  is  as 
large  as  it  wdll  grow. 

"Take  your  time.  I  do  not  need  the  money.  Why,  I 
have  saved  up,  and  can  loan  vou  another  thousand,  if  any 
accommodation." 

He  knows  to  the  very  dollar  the  limit  of  his  victim. 

175 


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liv 


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11 

li! 


176 


MY   FRIEND   3ILL. 


i 


will  not  go  one  dollar  beyond  that  limit.  He  is  then  "very 
sorry,"  but  he  "must  have  the  money!"  When  he  dies, 
which  is  seldom  young,  he  always  has  a  large  funeral, 
everybody  attends,  that  there  may  be  no  error  as  to  the 
depth  of  the  grave.  The  only  praise  ever  accorded  him 
when  he  is  gone  is  the  epitaph  found  on  his  tonib,  at  which 
all  smile  as  they  pass.  He  may  die  rich,  but  seldom 
mourned. 

Father  was  in  the  grasp  of  a  characteristic  member  of 
this  class  of  men. 

Knowing  that  the  three  hundred  dollars  which  I  had 
saved  up  would  go  into  the  ''grist"  if  I  gave  it  to  ;ather, 
I  felt  I  would  at  least  have  one  "good  time"  in  my  life. 
For  that  reason  1  had  spent  my  money  freely  for  one  who 
had  not  yet  acquired  the  art. 

I  sat  long  into  the  night,  thinking  of  the  chan£-e  the 
morrow  would  bring  to  me.  1  he  morrow  came,  but  a  far 
different  change  it  brought  from  the  one  I  knew  of. 
I  was  going  home.  I  would  settle  down  to  the  quiet 
life  of  a  farmer,  and  the  life  of  the  city  would  be  but 
a  memory.  I  was  resigned,  but  I  was  not  happy,  i  had 
tasted  of  the  city,  and  it  was  pleasing.  The  life  of  the 
country  was  endurable,  but  that  was  all.  The  morrow 
brought  a  letter  from  si  Anna,  and  that  letter  bore  the 
change  of  my  life.  Wonderful !  It  read  like  the  dream 
of  an  Aladdin.  Could  it  be  true,  or  was  I  in  a  dre^m  m\'- 
self  ?     Listen  to  the  words  it  bore: 

"Oh,  Ruben,  I  fear  almost  to  tell  you,  as  it  may  not  be 
true.  It  is  too  good  to  be  true.  You  know  our  old  bar- 
ren fami?  Well,  Aunt  Racheal  gave  us  far  more  than 
she  ever  dreamed  of.  She  gave  us  a  fortune.  Some  men 
came  to  see  you  the  other  day.  and,  not  finding  you,  they 
said  they  were  looking  for  a  farm.  Would  we  sell  the 
old  Darnell  farm?     'It  is  not  of  anv  value,  but  we  can 


MY   FRIEND   13 ILL. 


177 


I'  4 


fix  it  lip  and  use  it  as  a  hunting  preserve.'     Now,  I  knew 
it  was  of  no  use  for  that.     The  creek  that  ran  through  it 
might  do  for  trout  hshing,  but    for  hun^ 'ng  it  was  not 
suitable.     I  spoke  to  father  about  it,  and  told  him  the 
reason  the  men  gave  for  wanting  it.     The  reason  was  so 
poor  that  father  at  once  became  suspicious.     You  know 
reports  have  been  flying  ever  since  oil  was  discovered  in 
the  State.    One  locality  after  another  has  'just  struck  oil.' 
It  had  not  yet  reached  our  county.    Father,  not  wishing 
to  discourage  them  away,  said  that  you  owned  a  half  in- 
terest, and  that  he  would  write  you,  and  if  they  would 
come  again  in  a  week  he  would  give  them  an  answer. 
They  seemed  greatly  disappointed,  and  before  they  left 
they  !r.dde  an  offer  for  us  to  'think  over,'  as  they  said. 
The  offer  was  so  far  beyond  the  value  of  the  land  that 
father  was  certain  there  must  be  something  beside  scrub 
oak  and  blackberry  bushes  on  it.    He  drove  at  once  to  the 
old  farm,  and  found  a  number  of  men  going  up  and  down 
the  creek.     They  were  so  intent  on  what  thev  were  doing 
that  they  did  not  see  him,  although  he  got  almost  up  to 
them  m  the  underbrush.     One  of  them  said:  'There  are 
all  indications  of  oil !     Now,  if  we  can  buy  the  old  place 
before  that  boy  and  girl  know  what's  here,  it  will  be  a 
great  bit  of  business.'     Father  turned  and  came  away 
without  their  seeing  him.     I  would  have  written  you  at 
once,  but  I  did  not  wish  to  encourage  you  until  we  were 
certain.     Since  the  day  they  called  on  me  no  less  than 
four  different  men  and  parties  of  men  have  been  here,  and 
each  time  I  am  offered  a  higher  price,  until  I  am  utterly 
bewildered.     Oh,  I  know  not  what  to  do.    Oh,  Ruben,  if 
we  only  had  some  good  expert  to  ro  over  the  farm  and 
find  what  it  is  worth,  it  would  help  .0  determine  what  to 
do.     As  it  is,  the  sums  offered  liave  increaserl  so  fast  that 
there  is  no  way  for  us  to  tell  its  true  value.    I  do  not  want 


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178  MY   FRIEND    UILL. 

what  it  is  not  worth,  but  we  should  get  n^ar  its  value. 
You  had  better  come  home  at  once,  as  this  matter  is  far 
more  important  than  New  York,  with  Bill  and  Filth  ave- 
nue thrown  in." 

She  was  so  filled  with  the  oil  question  that  every  margin 
of  her  letter  v^as  taken  up  with  it,  and  not  a  word  about 
anything  else.  As  soon  as  I  had  read  the  letter  I  went  at 
once  to  see  Mr.  Deliertbern,  who,  I  knew,  was  in  some 
way  connected  with  a  company  that  dealt  in  oil.  When 
I  got  to  his  office  Bill  told  me  that  he  was  at  that  moment 
in  the  oil  company's  office,  where  they  were  holding  a 
meeting,  at  which  a  man  from  Pennsylvania  was  to  make 
a  report  on  a  great  "find"  that  had  just  been  made.  I 
was  so  excited  that  I  could  not  wait  for  ^Ir.  Deliertbern 
to  return,  but,  learning  from  Bill  where  this  oil  company's 
office  was  located,  I  w^ent  directly  to  it.  The  meeting  was 
just  being  called  as  I  arrived.  Mr.  DeHertbern  seemed 
pleased  to  see  me  and  invited  me  into  the  meeting-room, 
explaining  to  some  of  the  directors  that  I  was  a  young 
friend  of  his.  Little  did  either  of  us  think  of  the  result 
of  that  meeting.  Preliminaries  were  quickly  gone 
through  and  the  "oil  find"  was  taken  up.  The  Pcnnsyl- 
vanian  proved  to  be  the  greatest  expert  on  oil  lands  that 
this  company  had. 

"My  attention,"  he  began,  "was  called  to  this  property 
by  some  well  men  who  are  continually  hunting  out  new 
fields.  Their  description  of  the  property  was  so  glowing 
that  I  went  at  once  to  look  at  it,  and  I  found  it  even  better 
than  they  had  reported." 

"Did  you  find  who  owns  it?"  asked  the  chairman. 

"Yes;  it  belongs  to  an  old  man,  but  he  will  not  sell. 
At  any  rate,  every  time  he  is  approached  he  puts  oflf  the 
well  men  with  some  excuse — says  his  son  and  daughter 
own  it.     But  these    men   always  have  a  way  of  getting 


MY    FKIEXD    BILL. 


1/9 


what  they  want.  Thov  soon  t(niiid  that  the  old  man  was 
heavily  involved  on  account  oi  liavinL;-  gone  in  debt  for 
more  farms  than  he  needed.  Well,  the  day  1  left,  the 
holder  of  a  claim  for  tlunisands  of  dollars  against  him,  be- 
gan suit,  and.  as  ihcy  told  me.  'we  will  soon  be  in  a  po- 
sition to  negotiate  with  you !'  They  offered  the  old  man 
a  price  far  beyond  t^e  value  of  the  old  farm,  but  now 
they  say,  since  this  suit  has  begun,  they  can  get  it 
much  cheaper.  ( )f  course.  I  do  not  uphold  getting  prop- 
erty below  value,  but  these  well  men  are  t(x>  important  to 
us  for  me  to  oppose  them,  so  I  have  to  let  them  have  their 
own  way.  I  have  examined  the  property  very  carefully, 
and  find,  if  we  can  get  it  for" — and  here  he  mentioned  a 
price  ten  times  greater  than  sister  Anna  had  told  me  the 
men  had  oftcred  her. 

I  sat  there  as  one  in  a  dream.  I  knew  what  was  being 
said,  but  T  could  not  realize  that  I  was  hearing  eld  Aunt 
Racheal's  homestead  talked  about  in  connection  with  any- 
thing of  value.  What  saddened  me  was  to  hear  that  old 
Shylock  had  begun  suit  against  father.  I  would  go  home 
and  fight  the  suit  as  long  as  possible,  in  the  hope  that  1 
could  find  another  buyer  for  the  land,  or  induce  the  well 
men  to  increase  their  ofifer.  What  T  had  learned  in  thai 
meeting  I  could  not  use.  I  had  been  admitted  as  a 
trusted  guest,  as  Air.  DelTertbern's  friend,  and,  moreover, 
I  could  not  now  tell  him  alx>ut  sister  Anna's  letter.  Oh, 
how  I  wished  I  had  not  gone  to  that  meeting.  After  the 
expert  had  finished  his  report  but  little  more  was  done, 
and  they  left  the  room.  I  said  nothing  about  what  I  had 
come  to  say,  but  bid  AFr.  DeHcrtbern  good-by. 


till 


Ul 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 


Father  urged  me  not  to  take  so  foolhardy  a  risk,  that  I 
had  no  knoii'ledge  of  laz,'.  At  this  I  zchispered: 
"Neither  has  the  jury." 

I  left  New  York  that  night  and  reached  Ilighmont  the 
next  day,  the  stage  getting  into  the  village  at  noon.  The 
family  were  all  so  disheartened  over  the  coming  trial  that 
they  gave  mo  a  very  poor  welcome. 

"Ruben."  said  sister  Anna,  "to  think  that  what  we  had 
looked  upon  as  a  great  fortune  is  now  to  be  our  rum. 
Since  old  Shylock  began  his  suit  on  the  notes  the  men 
who  made  us  the  offer  now  say  it  was  too  high.  and.  in 
fact,  they  think  they  can  find  another  place  that  will 
answer  their  purpose  better.  \\'e  have  told  them  that  we 
would  accept  the  offer,  as  I  knew  you  would  agree  to  any- 
thing that  will  save  dear  father  in  his  old  age ;  but  they 
say :  'No,  we  are  not  altogether  pleased  with  the  farm.  It 
is  too  remote.  It  is  too  barren  ;  not  enough  forest  on  it  for 
hunting  purposes.  In  short,  we  hardly  care  for  it,  but 
will  see  later  on  about  it.' 

"And,  Ruben,  old  Shylock  is  hurrying  up  the  trial  all 
he  can.  His  lawyers,  the  best  in  the  county,  have  gotte-- 
from  the  judge  nearly  all  they  asked  for.  He  has  pushed 
the  trial  away  forward  on  what  he  calls  the  calendar. 
Father's  one  lawyer  (  all  he  can  afford,  and  a  poor  one  at 
that,  as  old  Shylock  had  secured  the  four  good  ones  in 
the  county  before  we  knew  of  the  trial)  has  done  what  he 

i8o 


MY   FR11£XD   BILL. 


l8l 


coiikl,  but  the  judj^c  never  liear.s  him  talkini,^  if  any  one  of 
the  other  four  have  a  word  to  sav,  and  everv  time  <nir  hiw- 
yer  wants  to  be  heard  at  least  two  of  them  are  up  with: 
'^lav  it  please  vour  honor!'  and,  Ruben,  it  aUvavs  'pleases 
his  honor'  not  to  notice  little  I'ennie,  as  people  call  our 
counsellor.  Uh,  Ruben,  what  will  we  do?  The  oUl  home 
will  be  sold,  and,  as  nobody  will  bid  a^i^^ainst  Shylock,  he 
will  get  all  for  less  than  the  face  of  the  judgment  he  cannot 
but  get  in  the  coming  trial,  leaving  nothing  for  us." 

This  was  the  situation  when  1  came  home  from  my 
pleasure  trip  to  Xew  York.  I  found  how  true  the  saying: 
"The  greatest  joy  and  the  greatest  sorrow  are  closely  al- 
lied." If  you  see  the  first,  kx)k  around,  and  the  second 
will  soon  be  along.  Never  had  I  had  as  much  joy  in  all 
my  life  as  1  had  seen  on  this  visit  to  P.ill.  and  never  was 
there  such  a  prospect  of  sorrow  as  now. 

T  was  not  one  to  sit  down  and  bewail  at  my  fate.  My 
nature  was  to  fight  better  as  the  "under  man."  I  soon 
found  that  "Bennie"  was  well  named.  lie  was  well 
enough  learned  in  the  law  :  in  fact,  he  had  been  the  medal 
man  of  his  class,  but  my  opinion  of  medal  men  by  this 
time  was  very  poor  indeed.  As  I  said,  he  was  well 
learned  in  the  law,  but  he  had  no  fight  in  him.  He  knew 
what  to  say,  but  he  had  no  force.  A  jury  seldom  thinks 
of  what  a  lawyer  says.  Init  how  he  says  it.  I  once  saw  a 
trial  in  Highmont  Wi.-  c  this  was  proven  true  most  con- 
clusivclv.  The  law  provides  that  "if  an  animal  is  found 
on  the  highway  unattended  by  a  caretaker  the  fine  for  the 
same  shall  be  75  cents.  If  the  animal  shall  do  any  dam- 
age to  field  crops,  said  damage  shall  be  assessed  and  the 
animal  held  until  paid  by  the  owner  of  such  animal."  I 
am  not  a  law-book  writer ;  that  is  why  the  above  is  not  put 
in  exact  legal  phrase,  but  you  v,ill  note  that  I  used  "said" 
and  "same,"  which  will  in  a  great  measure  excuse  the  re- 


ft 


f  . 


ip 

11 


Uid 


182 


MY   FRIEXI)   BILL. 


maiiidcr.  Well,  to  proceed  with  the  story  in  ([ucstion : 
"Men"  Titer's  cow,  usually  a  quiet  "haste,"  did  get  on  the 
liighway — "J^  cents — and  ilid  get  into  fanner  Crumley's 
cornfield,  and  did  eat  and  destroy  $4.12^  worth  of  corn — 
$4.87^  in  all.  This  amount  "lien"  Titer  hy  law  must  pay. 
"Hen"  called  for  a  jury  trial,  and,  hy  a  strange  fate,  every 
one  of  the  jurymen  was  a  farmer.  It  was  to  their  interest 
to  make  an  example  of  "lien"  Titer;  hut  "Hen"  would 
say  nothijig  hut:  "Wait  till  Id  (Ed  was  his  law- 
yer) gits  at  thim.  He  is  the  hye  (hoy)  that  will  make 
thim  furgit  their  own  grandmithers."  And  he  did.  The 
picture  that  Ed  drew  of  the  jXKjr  Titer  children  crying  for 
their  milk  whde  that  monster.  Crumley,  held  in  durance 
vile  "Hen's"  cow  was  one  of  the  most  pathetic  appeals  I 
have  ever  hearth  I  cried — T  couldn't  help  it.  I  felt  ex- 
cu.sed,  though,  for  every  juryman  was  doing  the  same 
thing.  \'erdict:  Crumley  was  fined  S5  and  costs  for 
taking  up  the  cow. 

While  in  New  York  I  used  occasionally  to  attend  court 
to  hear  the  lawyers  argue  cases.  What  I  noticed  of  most 
common  occurrence  was  that  if  a  lawyer  knew  hut  little 
law  he  would  devote  much  time  telling  the  judge  "I 
object,"  and  if  the  judge  would  overrule  he  would  then 
"note  an  exception,"  in  the  hopes  that  when  somebody 
higher  up  who  did  know  the  law,  would  by  some  chance 
find  that  his  "ol>jections"  were  well  taken  and  the  decision 
of  the  judge  reversed.  At  any  rate.  I  would  have  Bennie 
"object"  from  start  to  finish  in  this  trial.  We  w^ould  de- 
lay everything  we  could.  Bennie  knew  a  good  deal  but 
nothing  he  knew  was  truer  than  that  "If  you  have  a  poor 
case  delay.  Delay  helps  the  man  who  has  no  case,  and 
often  hurts  the  one  with  the  best  case."  Yes,  we  would 
delay — that  is,  we  thought  we  would  delay,  l)ul  the  judge 
wasn't  that  kind  of  a  judge.     Bennie  told  me  that  Old 


MY   FRIEND   DILL. 


l«3 


Sliylock  always  loaned  tiiis  judge  all  the  money  he 
needed,  and  as  he  spent  a  i^ihmI  deal  v)f  time  at  the  taverns 
in  the  different  towns  where  he  held  court,  he  must  have 
needed  a  considerable.  It  always  occurred  to  me  that 
who  ever  had  the  contract  for  furnishing  the  fuel  for  that 
judge's  nose,  need  not  lo<^k  for  many  other  contracts,  but 
I  used  to  feel  sorry  for  the  man  who  had  to  pay  for  this 
contract,  until  Bennie  told  me  he  thought  old  "Shy"  paid 
most  of  it.  No,  we  did  not  delay.  The  trial  was  pushed 
faster  than  any  trial  had  ever  before  been  pushed  in  the 
county. 

The  opening  day  was  almost  like  a  county  fair.  My 
father  was  well  known  for  a  long  distance  around  High- 
mount,  and  while  everybody  had  respected  him  in  his 
prosperous  days,  it  was  curiosity  rather  than  respect 
which  brought  them  together  at  the  trial. 

The  twelve  men  were  soon  impaneled — whenever 
Bennie  suggested  a  man  of  any  intelligence  one  of  the 
other  lawyers  would  object.  "Objection  sustained ;"  and 
when  on  the  other  hand,  Shy's  lawyer  would  name  some 
ignorant  fellow  Bennie  would  object.  "Objection  over- 
ruled," then  the  "gavel"  would  fall.  Well,  I'ennie  may 
have  been  too  sarcastic,  but  he  spoke  of  it  as  a  "typical 
American  jury."  I  cannot  tell  my  readers  of  the  outside 
v/orld  wliat  this  jurv  looked  like,  as  thev  would  onlv 
know  by  some  comparison,  and  I  can  think  of  nothing 
with  which,  to  compare  it.  While  as  for  those  of  my  little 
inside  world,  I  need  not  tell  them,  for  they  were  all  there 
and  know  for  themselves. 

Sister  Anna  told  me  that  she  saw  two  of  the  men  who 
had  offered  to  buy  our  farm.  She  pointed  them  out  to 
me.  I  watched  them,  and  saw  them  standing  near  the 
jury  box.  They  would  say  something  to  nearly  every  one 
of  the  jurors  as  they  would  walk  up  to  take  their  seats. 


i,( 


Us 


■fitl 


i84 


MV    1-RIKND    RILL. 


It',- 


1  told  IViiiiic  U)  object,  l»iit  lie  did  it  so  vvcak-voiccd  that 
1  don't  tliink  the  jiid^c  heard  him.  At  any  rate,  he  said 
nothin};-  and  the  men  continued  to  smile  at  and  talk  to  the 
jurors. 

Country  trials  are  much  like  those  in  the  city — they  are 
long  or  short  as  the  purse  is  long  or  short. 

Shylock  iiaving  four  lawyers  on  his  si('"  meant  a  trial 
long  enough  for  eacii  one  to  earn  his  money. 

As  for  Bennie.  he  was  not  taken  into  account.  He 
would  have  to  stay  as  long  as  the  four  chose  to  keep  him. 

The  trial  was  on  its  second  day — nothing  had  been 
done  further  than  selecting  the  jury,  and  the  case  opened 
by  the  leader  of  Shylock's  four  lawyers. 

He  said  nothing  about  the  case.  He  spent  the 
whole  two  hours  of  his  speech  in  telling  the  "intelligent" 
jury  what  he  knew  about  lUackstone  and  the  principles  of 
law  and  juris])rudence.  Those  of  them  who  were  awake 
at  the  time  he  finished  seemed  greatly  pleased,  whether 
^\  ith  the  speech  or  that  it  had  closed  I  never  could  tell. 

Tlie  next  lawyer  told  the  jury  what  he  knew  of  the 
obligation  of  debtor  to  creditor,  and  cited  a  number  of 
cases  beginning  at  Hasdrubal  and  running  on  down 
through  i)ast  Xapoleon  and  Wellington.  The  other  two 
lawyers  followed  in  the  same  line  of  argument. 

The  trial  had  so  far  been  conducted  without  any  sem- 
blance of  law.  T>ennic  had  "objected,"  "taken  excep- 
tions," was  overruled,  sat  upon,  laughed  at  by  the  Court 
until  our  side  seemed  in  a  desperate  situation. 

"May  it  please  the  Court,"  I  began,  after  the  four  law- 
yers had  all  made  their  speeches.  I  could  get  no  further 
for  "Hear!  Hear!"  from  all  parts  of  the  court  room, 
drowned  even  the  raps  of  the  old  judge. 

Finally,  when  the  room  w^as  again  silent,  I  continued : 

"If  your  honor  please,  and  the  four  w^orthy  gentlemen 


MY    run  N'D    HILL. 


185 


i  M 


wlio  have  sixjkeii  so  leariKHlly  do  not  object,  I  would  ask 
that  1  may  he  iKTmillcd  lu  say  a  tew  words  to  helj)  our 
one  lone  counsellor," 

The  judj^e  smiled,  the  four  lawyers  said  it  was  entirely 
no  difference  to  them.  So  it  was  agreed  tiiat  I  miKJit 
speak  in  place  of  Bennie.  Father  urg:cd  me  not  to  take 
so  foolhardy  a  risk,  that  while  I  might  be  heard  further 
than  Bennie,  I  had  no  knowledge  of  the  law. 

At  this  I  whisjwred  to  him.  "neither  has  the  jury."  I 
had  dressed  for  the  occasion.  1  laid  my  city  suit  away, 
and  donned  one  of  my  own  tailor's.  The  very  novelty  of 
the  situation  aided  me.  The  court  room  was  packed  with 
people,  most  of  whom  had  known  me  from  childho<jd.  I 
was  all  alone.  Against  me  was  the  judge,  and  four  of  the 
best  lawyers  in  the  county  had  siK)ken  to  a  jury  of  their 
own  selection.  As  is  often  the  rase,  in  their  anxiety  to 
get  everything,  they  had  gotten  t(X)  much.  I  knew  sev- 
eral of  the  jury.  Some  of  them  were  under  obligations 
to  my  father;  two  or  three  of  the  others  were  sons  of  men 
who  had  once  been  in  good  circumstances,  but  had  lost 
their  all  in  almost  similar  cases  with  ours.  Especially  was 
this  true  of  the  foreman.  When  a  young  man  his  future 
was  a  bright  one,  but  a  suit  at  court,  quite  similar  to  this 
one  of  ours,  had  swept  away  every  vestige  of  their  home. 
His  father  died  from  grief,  and  he  had  never  recovered 
his  spirits  enough  to  get  alx)ve  the  life  of  a  common 
laborer. 

Again  the  four  lawyers  in  their  effort  to  show  their 
legal  knowledge,  had  all  talked  over  the  heads  of  these 
jurymen.  I  knew  that,  while  I  might  not  be  versed  in 
the  law,  I  could  rcnch  these  men  through  a  better  chan- 
nel— one  that  thev  knew  more  about — the  arrogance  of 
the  rich  and  the  ills  of  poverty.  I  began,  in  slow-,  meas- 
ured sentences : 


iiK 


i86 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


ill,''!. 


"Your  honor  and  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  you  see  before 
you  a  boy  with  no  knowledge  of  the  law.  You  have 
known  me  from  childhood.  You  know  the  advantages  I 
have  had  and  know  that  I  am  not  armed  to  fight  this 
unequal  battle  with  the  giants  of  the  bar ;  but,  gentlemen 
of  the  jury,  when  a  boy  is  fighting  for  the  gray  haired 
father  and  mother  whose  lives  he  prizes  far  above  his 
own,  then  he  is  armed  with  a  weapon  against  which  the 
sharp  blade  of  legal  learning  has  no  force. 

"You  have  been  most  ably  told  by  these  four  giants  of 
the  bar  the  meaning  of  words,  the  certain  fine  turns  which 
can  be  made  with  words.     Aye,  gentlemen,  some  of  us 
know  too  well  how  that  words  can  be  turned  to  our  de- 
stroying.    Who  knows  better  their  uses  than  the  money- 
lender?    He  seeks  out  his  victim,  who  is  a  man  in  pros- 
perous condition.     He  throws  around  him  a  spell  of  low, 
sweet-sounding  words  and  urges  him  to  accept  monev 
at  a  fair  rate  of  interest.     Once  the  spell  is  around  the 
victim,  and  no  power  on  eaith  can  break  it.     He  is  led 
on   and    still   further   on.     As   the   bonds   become   more 
firmly  tightened,  the  rate  of  interest  increases.     But.  gen- 
tlemen, this  Shylock  knows  wdien  to  stop  tue  use  of  soft 
words.     li  is  when  he  has  in  his  grasp  the  victim.     His 
words   now  change— their   soft,   flute-like   tones  become 
more  terrible  than  those  of  the  thunder.     The  poor  victim 
fights  on  and  on  the  unequal  battle,  but  he  seldom  wins. 
The  struggle  often  ends  with  not  only  his  fortune  gone, 
but  his  life.     The  Shylock  looks  upon  his  death  struggle, 
and  with  his  cofl'ers  swelled  out  with  the  hard-earned 
dollars  of  his  victim,  says  to  the  widow  and  orphaned 
children  :  '[  will  rent  you  the  homestead  cheap!'  "    (This, 
I  saw,  had  its  effect  on  the  foreman,  who  seemed  to  catch 
every  phase  of  my  meaning.)     "The  work  of  the  modern 
Shylock  does  not  end  with  the  death  of  his  victim.     It 


MY   FRIEKD   BILL. 


187 


often  follows  on  down  tliroiigli  to  his  children,  changing 
their  whole  lives,  and  making-  them  slaves  where  they 
should  be  masters." 

Up  to  this  point  the  lawyers  had  attempted  many  times 
to  stop  me,  but  the  more  they  opposed,  the  more  fire  I 
threw  into  my  pleading.  I  saw  1  had  the  jury  nearly 
all  with  me,  and  1  would  turn  in  another  direction. 

"Who  is  the  Shylock  and  who  the  victim  in  this  case? 
The  wrecked  homes  of  the  one  are  all  over  our  country — 
the  kind  acts  of  the  other  are  known  to  all  who  have 
ever  needed  a  helping  hand.  Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  it 
is  for  you  to  say  if  another  home  shall  mark  the  trail 
of  Shylock!  It  may  not  be  known  to  you  all  that  this 
trial  was  tmied  for  a  purpose.  Had  it  been  deferred, 
as  was  promised,  Shylock  would  have  had  his  money  and 
r  interest;  but  that  was  not  what  he  wanted.  That  was 
not  for  what  he  had  used  soft  words.  Gentlemen  of  the 
jury,  what  he  wanted  was  the  very  roof  that  covers  our 
heads.     Shall  he  have  that  roof?" 

"Xo,  no!"  from  all  parts  of  the  room.  The  judge 
stands  up  to  rap  order:  tlie  four  lawyers  turn  uneasily 
in  their  seats ;  old  Shylock  is  out  in  the  vestibule  walking 
back  and  forth,  pale  and  nervous;  several  of  the  jury  are 
wiping  their  eyes. 

"Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  I  hold  in  my  hand  the  proof 
of  most  glaring  usury  on  the  part  of  Shylock.  I  may 
not  know  all  the  fine  turns  of  legal  wording,  but  1  do 
know  that  usury  is  a  very  grave  offense."  I  had  said 
enough,  and  had  l)Ut  to  close.  '"And  \un\\  gentlemen  of 
the  jury,  friends  and  neighbors,  I  have  done.  1  have 
told  you  no  law.  1  know  no  law.  I  do  know,  however, 
that  if  Shylock  adds  another  victim  to  his  number  this 
day  that  a  grave  injustice  will  be  done  to  an  honest  man." 

The  court-room  was  in  an  uproar,  and  for  many  min- 


Kii 


f 


!i 


i88 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


Lib  i^  -^  i  1  kii!i.l 


utes  the  judge  could  not  be  lieard.  He  cliarged  the  jury, 
but  they  seemed  not  to  hear  him.  They  were  sent  out, 
and  soon  returned  with  a  vercnct  in  favor  of  my  father. 
How  or  on  what  grounds  they  could  have  done  so,  no 
one  knew,  nor  could  they  explain  it ;  but,  as  Bennie  said, 
they  were  a  "typical  American"  jury. 

Friends  gathered  around  and  warmly  congratulated 
me.  Father  and  mother  embraced  me  and  wept.  But 
imagine  my  wonder  and  surprise  when  before  me  stood 
Bill  and  Mr.  DeHertbern. 

"Ruben,  nothing  in  the  world  can  now  stand  between 
you  and  the  law.  You  need  not  borrow  nor  accept  a 
gift,  for  you  are  in  your  own  right  a  rich  man.  Our 
expert  reports  the  true  value  of  your  farm,  and  I  am  pre- 
pared to  close  the  matter  at  once."  And  that  very  day 
Bennie  drew  the  papers. 

We  were  to  receive  a  certain  sum  in  cash,  which  seemed 
in  itself  several  fortunes.  We  were  to  receive  another 
amount  in  certificates  in  the  oil  company,  and  a  further 
royalty  per  barrel  for  all  the  oil  taken  from  the  property. 
Tiie  next  day  I  sent  for  old  Shylock,  and  when  we  had 
counted  the  just  amount  due  him,  Mr.  DeHertbern  gave 
him  a  check  in  full  payment.  It  ttK)k  only  a  very  small 
part  of  the  cash  due  us.  The  old  man  for  once  in  his  life 
wept.  Bennie  thought  it  was  for  joy  at  receiving  any- 
thing, after  the  verdict  of  the  "typical"  etc. 

It  was  a  happy  reunion  at  our  old  home  that  night. 
Bill  and  his  mother  were  there,  and  Mr.  DeHertbern  was 
to  stay  over  to  look  at  the  oil  property.  I  was  most 
curious  to  know  how  Bill  and  Mr.  DeHertbern  had 
reached  there  just  at  that  time.  Bill  told  me  that  his 
mother,  who  had  been  West,  reached  home  a  day  or  two 
before  the  trial.  She  wrote  at  once  and  told  liim  the 
serious  trouble  we  were  in,  and  how  that  nothing  could 


MY  FRIEND   BILL. 


189 


save  our  home.  "Oh,  how  I  wish  we  could  help  them !" 
she  wrote.  Well,  when  Bill  got  the  letter  he  showed  it 
to  Mr.  DeHertbern.  They  found  that  by  starting  at  once 
they  could  catch  the  stage  in  time.  They  reached  the 
court-room  just  as  I  was  beginning  my  speech,  and  I  was 
greatly  pleased  to  know  that  they  had  heard  it,  for  when 
one  does  himself  fair  credit  one  likes  to  have  his  friends 
hear  him. 

It  was  a  most  joyous  week  that  followed  the  end  of 
the  trial.  From  sorrow  to  joy,  from  threatened  poverty 
to  riches  beyond  the  dream  of — to  me — Croesus.  Success 
makes  manv  friends.  Wherever  I  went,  1  was  met  with 
congratulations,  both  on  the  result  of  the  trial  and  my 
change  from  penury  to  wealth.  Possibly  nothing  that 
had  ever  occurred  in  Highmont  created  so  great  a  sensa- 
tion as  our  trial.  I  have  made  many  speeches  since  that 
day.  I  have  spoken  in  the  highest  courts  of  the  land, 
and  before  the  most  learned  judges;  but  the  one  great 
speech  of  my  life  was  that  I  made  when  an  unlearned 
boy  before  an  ignorant  jury  in  a  mountain  village  court- 
room. That  speech  is  talked  of  to  this  day  among  tlie 
people  of  Highmont.  Their  good  opinion  is  sweeter  to 
my  heart  than  the  applause  of  a  nation. 

Mr.  DeHertbern  remained  two  days.  He  drove  over 
to  the  Darnell  farm  with  his  expert,  and  was  greatly 
pleased  with  the  prospect.  Work  was  at  once  l>egun  on 
its  development,  and  it  proved  a  success  far  1)eyon(l  their 
anticipations.  The  wells  are  still  producing,  and  our 
royalty  turns  in  to  Sister  Anna  and  me  a  large  yearly 
income. 

On  the  day  of  my  arrival  from  New  York  almost  the 
first  person  I  met  was  a  poor  widows  w^hose  daughter 
Maggie  had  run  away  from  home  four  years  before. 
This  poor  mother  had  never  heard  from  her  child  in  all 


In',- 


«i 


m. 


.nil 


\  il 


190 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


this  time.  She  had  hoped  on  that  Maggie  would  return, 
or  that  she  would  send  some  word  to  tell  her  that 
she  was  yet  alive.  "Oh,  Mr.  Ruben!  have  you  seen, 
in  the  great  city,  my  little  Maggie?  Nobody  has  ever 
seen  her.  My  heart  is  breaking,  thinking  of  her.  Oh, 
she  must  come  back  to  me  some  time !  She  was  all  I  had 
in  the  world.  The  life  of  the  very  poor  has  little  joy 
in  it,  but  when  1  had  my  child  with  me  I  did  not  think 
of  poverty.  1  thanked  the  Lord  and  was  happy;  but 
when  she  went  away  without  a  word  to  me,  I  have  never 
seen  a  happy  moment  since.  Mr.  Ruben,  I  did  hope  you 
might  have  seen  her,  and  that  you  could  have  told  her 
how  her  poor  old  mother  is  always  waiting  for  her  to 
come  back." 

The  sorrow  and  trouble  of  others  affect  me  deeply.  If 
I  can  speak  a  word  of  cheer  or  help  them  in  their  grief, 
1  always  try  to  do  so;  but  I  could  do  nothing  for  this  poor 
woman.  Nothing  I  could  do  or  say  would  bring  Maggie 
home  to  her  mother,  and  nothing  but  ^laggie's  return 
could  lift  the  burden  from  her  lonely  life.  Before  I  re- 
turned to  the  city,  Sister  Anna  had  promised  to  quietly 
see  that  this  poor  woman  should  never  want  for  any- 
thing. 

Pauline  and  Evelyn  ]\Iay  never  got  tired  listening  to 
my  story  of  Helen.  They  would  ask  over  and  over: 
"Brother  Ruben,  tell  us  again  about  Helen.  Will  she 
some  time  come  to  see  us?  Wouldn't  we  have  fun !  We 
would  let  her  paddle  in  the  little  brook,  and  ride  on  the 
big  wagon,  and — and " 

"Yes,"  broke  in  Evelyn  Mav,  "and  get  stinged  with 
the  bees!" 

"Oh,  Avoukhrt  it  be  fun!  Brother  Ruben,  won't  you. 
bring  her  to  see  us  some  time?" 

"Yes,  if  her  mamma  will  let  her  come  I  will  bring  her : 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


191 


but  she  is  always  afraid  Helen  will  get  hurt,  and  is  very 
careful  of  her." 

"Why,  Brother  Ruben,  she  mustn't  be  'fraid  if  she  is 
with  you.  You  never  will  let  her  get  hurt!"  And  they 
never  ceased  planning  what  they  would  do  when  Helen 
came.  Not  for  a  moment  could  they  be  made  to  think 
she  might  not  come. 

As  soon  as  I  was  no  longer  needed  at  home,  I  returned 
to  New  York;  as  now,  with  nothing  to  prevent,  I  would 
begin  my  cherished  study  of  the  law. 


w 


! ; 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

They  buy  their  music  as  they  ivould  their  coal,  n'eighing 
it  out  on  the  same  heavy  scale.  In  Europe  music 
is  a  pleasure — in  America  it  is  a  commodity. 

The  day  Edward  Deliertbern  reached  the  other  side 
he  sent  a  cablegram  and  a  telecablegram  on  his  safe  ar- 
rival ill  Milan,  Italy.  Wire  food  is  never  satisfying  to 
the  mind,  and  it  was  only  when  I  received  a  letter  from 
him  tliat  I  was  at  all  relieved  from  the  strain  of  very 
natural  worry. 

Edward  wrote:  "I  have  seen  the  Professor.  j\Iy 
translation  of  his  letter  was  correct.  I  have  met  Lord 
and  Lady  Alleyn,  who  do  not  recognize  me  as  the  em- 
barrassed youth  they  met  in  the  tomb.  They  know  me 
only  as  Count  Drasco's  friend.  They  are  almost  distract- 
ed with  grief,  as  what  the  old  Egyptologist  told  me  is 
true.  Their  daughter  was  stolen  from  them  by  a  band 
of  bandits.  Lord  Alleyn  has  ofifered  a  large  ransom,  but 
word  was  sent  him  that,  *We  will  name  the  ransom  in 
due  time.' 

"In  time  of  action  Professor  Blake  is  a  very  child.  He 
has  no  plan,  can  suggest  no  way  by  which  we  can  be 
of  service  to  the  stricken  father  and  mother  in  their 
grief.  I  have  found  my  friend,  Count  Drasco,  and  have 
told  him  my  story.  This  man  when  in  New  York  had 
seemed  so  gentle— almost  timid,  that  I  feared  he  would 
be  of  small  service  in  time  of  strong   quick  action ;  but, 

igs 


MY   FRIEND    BILL. 


1 93 


' 


' 


Ruben,  I  had  never  befure  been  so  mistaken  in  my  esti- 
mate uf  a  man  as  I  had  been  in  the  Count.  Tlie  favorite 
of  the  drawing-room,  tlie  gentle-mannered  man  of 
fashion,  became  a  very  giant  in  time  of  need,  lie  entercxl 
at  once  with  me  in  devising  a  means  of  rescuing  Aliss 
Alleyn.  Said  lie:  'This  is  a  most  dehcate  liazard.  We 
dare  use  no  force,  and  yet  must  needs  be  prepared  to 
fight  on  occasion.  If  siie  be  in  the  ix)\ver  of  the  bancHts, 
they,  by  long  custom,  have  learned  all  the  ways  of  at- 
tempted rescue.  If  force  sufficient  be  sent,  these  men, 
who  have  lost  all  human  feeling  by  long  years  of  preying 
on  their  fellow  men,  would  kill  her  rather  than  that  she 
be  taken.  Only  by  means  of  which  these  bandits  know 
nothing  can  we  hope  to  succeed.  We  will  dress  as  be- 
comes most  humble  strolling  minstrels.  Ah !  but  there 
we  will  fail.  You  Americans  are  not  musical.  You 
have,  you  all  claim,  a  great  love  for  music ;  but  you  do 
not  know  true  music.  The  strolling  minstrel  of  our 
mountains  often  has  more  music  in  him  than  you  will 
find  in  one  of  your  so-called  music  schools.  When  I  was 
in  your  country  I  heard  much  that  pleased,  but  all  the 
musicians  were  foreigners.  None  of  your  ladies  sang. 
I  heard  no  voice  in  your  drawing-rooms  save  that  of  the 
professional  who  sang  for  pay.  No,  this  plan  will  not 
do;  although  it  is  the  best  that  could  be  devised  were  you 
a  singer,  or  could  play  the  guitar.' 

"Ruben,  I  felt  the  criticism  most  keenly.  America  is 
not  advancing  in  music.  Our  people  feel  that  it  is  taking 
a  lowly  position  to  play  or  sing  for  their  guests.  They 
buy  their  music  as  they  would  their  coal,  weighing  it 
out  on  the  same  heavy  scale.  In  Europe  music  is  a 
pleasure — in  America  it  is  a  commodity.  I  could  but 
think  of  the  long  months — yes,  even  years — I  had  spent 
trying  to  learn  music,  for  I  love  it  as  few-  Italians  Icwe  it ; 


fj. 


If 


1 1 1 


M 


194 


MY    FRIEND   BILL. 


and  when  I  'lought  of  my  old  music  teacher,  Professi^^r 
I'Venchelh,  and  liovv  that  he  used  to  tell  me  that  my 
Italian  accent  was  perfect,  and  that  my  voice  was  as  pure 
as  an  Italian  minstrel,  I  could  not  help  saying: 

"  'Count,  1  have  studied  your  music,  and  play  some- 
what on  the  guitar.'  lie  smiled,  and  reached  me  that 
instrument  without  a  word.  The  moment  I  touched  the 
chords  he  was  all  animation,  and  when  I  sang  a  simple 
little  Italian  ballad  which  Professor  Frenchelli  always 
said  1  sang  well,  the  Count  was  almost  beside  himself 
with  pleasure. 

"  'It  is  the  way — the  very  best.  See !  our  voices  blend 
together  in  soft  minstrel  melody,  in  plaintive  song;'  and 
he  joined  me  in  the  ballad,  which  he  knew.  I,  too,  was 
surprised  at  his  fine  voice. 

"  'I  will  not  be  so  critical,'  said  he,  'on  the  swordsman- 
ship of  America  until  I  have  seen  what  you  can  do  in 
sword  play.'  At  that  he  took  down  two  keen  blades  from 
w'here  they  hung  in  his  room,  and  handing  me  one,  took 
position  as  though  to  fence.  A  very  few  passes  con- 
vinced him  that  he  was  no  match  for  my  skill.  He  was 
even  more  delighted  than  he  was  at  my  voice. 

''Terfect!     Perfect!" 

"  'But  what  is  the  good,'  I  asked,  'of  being  able  to  use 
a  sword,  if  w^e  dress  the  part  of  a  minstrel  ?  We  cannot 
go  armed,  as  a  minstrel  carries  no  weapon.'  He  took 
down  a  guitar  and  handed  it  to  me  to  examine. 

"  'What,'  asked  he,  'do  you  see  peculiar  about  this  in- 
strument?' I  took  it,  looked  it  over  carefully,  played 
upon  it,  returned  it  with,  'I  see  nothing  further  than  that 
it  has  a  peculiarly  formed  head,  and  that  the  back  of  the 
instrument  is  somewhat  differently  shaped ;  but  I  would 
not  have  noted  any  difference  had  you  not  called  my 
attention  to  it.' 


iMY   FRIEND    BILL. 


195 


"'Sec!*  said  lie;  and  with  a  quick  niovcincnt  lie  had 
grasped  the  peculiar  head  of  the  j^uitar  and  stood  in  front 
of  me,  armed  with  a  sword.  That  peculiar  head  was  a 
sword-hilt,  and  the  back  of  the  guitar  was  the  sheath. 

"  'No  one  would  suspect  this  innocciit-looking  guitar 
as  an  instrument  of  death,  and  yet  you  see  the  l)lade  is 
a  perfect  sword.'  So  great  was  my  surprise  that  I  ccnild 
make  no  reply. 

"  'There  is  but  one  other  guitar  like  this,  and  it  is 
owned  by  a  man  who  is  my  enemy.  I  have  no  means  of 
gaining  possession  of  it,  as  he  prizes  it  above  money.  He 
thinks  his  the  only  one  of  the  kind  in  the  world.  He 
knows  nothing  of  this  one.' 

"While  I  knew  that  time  was  valuable,  I  also  felt  I 
must  gain  possession  of  that  other  instrument.  I  learned 
from  the  Count  who  owned  it.  I  left  him  and  went  direct 
to  our  Consul,  wdio,  I  was  surprised  to  fintl,  knew  my 
father  well.  He  was  a  young  man  about  my  own  acje. 
His  face  and  frank  manner  made  me  feel  I  could  fully 
trust  him.  I  told  him  my  story.  He  entered  Into  our 
plan  most  heartily,  and  when  I  spoke  of  the  other  instru- 
ment and  gave  him  the  name  of  the  owner,  he  smiled  and 
told  me  to  call  this  evening  and  he  would  have  something 
to  my  interest.  I  returned  to  the  home  of  the  Ccnmt  and 
found  he  had  secured  two  well-worn  minstrel  suits. 
Ruben,  could  you  see  me  as  I  sit  here  dressed  in  mine, 
you  would  not  know  me.  I  do  not  recognize  myself  in 
the  mirror.     The  Count  says,   'We  look  our  character.' 

"In  my  interview  wnth  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Alleyn  this  fore- 
noon I  learned  as  much  of  the  particulars  of  the  abrluc- 
tion  of  their  daughter  as  they  could  give;  as  nearlv  as 
they  could  describe  the  place,  the  character  of  the  deep 
cut  or  pass  in  the  mountain  wdiere  their  carriage  was 
stopped,  the  number  of  the  men,  their  dress,  and  how 


p: 


196 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


tlu'y  were  armed.  !Mucli  was  vague  to  them,  as  it  was 
all  (lone  so  quickly  that  they  could  not  note  minutely  all 
the  circumstances. 

"What  had  impressed  them  more  than  anything  else 
was  the  character  of  the  leader.  They  described  him 
almost  exactly  as  the  old  Egyptologist  had  pictured  him 
to  me.  A  man  of  powerful  build,  with  a  face  that  showed 
no  mercy.  I  could  not  tell  them  the  full  depth  of 
interest  I  felt  in  their  daughter,  nor  that  I  was  about  to 
attempt  her  rescue,  but  I  did  counsel  them  to  make  no 
terms  until  they  again  heard  from  me.  I  have  said  noth- 
ing to  Professor  Blake  as  to  my  intentions.  He  would 
be  sure  to  do  or  say  that  which  might  frustrate  our  plans. 
I  have  given  your  name  and  address  to  the  Consul.  If 
anything  should  happen  to  me,  he  will  notify  you 
promptly. 

"Later.  I  have  been  again  to  the  Consul's.  How,  or 
in  what  manner,  he  would  not  inform  me,  but  he  has 
secured  the  guitar  which  I  so  much  coveted.  We  are 
almost  ready  to  start.  Just  now  when  I  described  the 
leader  of  the  bandits  to  the  Count  he  seemed  greatly 
moved. 

"  'Why,'  said  he,  'he  must  surely  be  Lougi  Amabilli,  on 
whose  head  the  Government  has  an  offer  of  25,000 
francs !  He  has  friends  all  through  the  mountains.  The 
reward  has  no  effect.  He  goes  and  comes  among  the 
villages,  and  no  one  interferes.  I  have  heard  say  he  is 
a  great  favorite,  as  he  spends  money  with  a  free  hand. 
His  sword  has  caused  many  deaths — they  cannot  be  called 
murders,  as  he  always  fights  fair.  Men  who  excel  are 
ever  credited  as  greater  than  they  are.  This  may  be  true 
with  Amabilli,  but  he  is  said  to  be  the  l>est  swordsman 
in  all  northern  Italy.' 

"Ruben,  this  was  not  pleasing  to  hear,  when  what  the 


MY   FKIEND    BILL. 


197 


old  seer  told  nie  is  ever  runtiinj^  in  my  tiiitid.  If  you 
never  hear  from  me  again,  do  not  tliink  that  for  a  moment 
there  was  a  single  regret  for  what  I  am  ahout  t<>  at- 
tempt  " 


h:fl 


are 


It; 


il 


SI 


1  1   i^ 


CHAPTER  XXXVill. 

Gold!    .^  mine  of  it  could  not  keep  yoii  behind  that 
iron  door!" 


"WAS  HE  AN  AMERICAN?  a  young  tourist 
Found  dkap  i-kom  a  sword  thrust^  in  mountain  pass 
N\\.\\< ,  Italy!" 

The  above  was  tlic  awful  lioadliiics  in  a  news{)aper  I 
bought  only  a  few  minutes  after  I  had  finished  reading- 
Edward's  letter.  The  account  was  written  in  the  most 
sensational  manner.  While  it  did  not  name  Edward,  it 
had  as  well  done  so.  The  name  was  all  that  was  want- 
ing to  convey  to  my  mind  that  it  was  indeed  my  friend. 
I  hail  scarce  finished  the  account,  with  my  mind  filled 
with  awful  forebodings,  when  I  was  handed  a  message. 
It  was  from  the  Consul  in  Milan.  It  was  very  brief — 
"Rumor  says  DeHertbern  assassinated;  investigating.** 
There  was  no  longer  any  doubt.  Everything  pointed  to 
his  death.  Had  not  the  old  seer  as  much  as  said  he  would 
be  slain  in  a  mountain  pass?  Had  not  Edward  himself 
written  an  hour  before  setting  out  to  attempt  the  rescue 
of  his  queen  that  he  had  forebodings  of  ill?  I  would 
have  gone  at  once  to  Mr.  I  DeHertbern  and  told  him  all 
I  knew  had  I  thought  it  would  have  serve;'  any  purpose. 
But  why,  I  argued,  should  1  cause  tliem  pain  when  I 
knew  absolutely  nothing,  however  real  that  nothing 
seemed  to  me? 

******** 

198 


MV    FKir.NI)    MILL. 


199 


r.iil  to  follow  l^lward  and  the  ^.'oiitii  (tii  ihcir  jK-riKms 
lUcrprisL'.  Tw  ■  v<  Mtlis.  clad  in  tiie  ^arl)  of  small  mcr- 
cliant><.  inij^ht  luivo  been  seen  leaving  the  j^ates  of  Milan 
cis  the  clock  in  a  neijj^hhoring  church  tower  was  strikin^f 
the  hour  of  nudni}^ht.  They  v  oiild  start  at  this  unseemly 
time  that  they  niijijht  be  well  on  tlieir  way  toward  a  rail- 
way station  a  few  miles  out  from  Milan  hy  morning",  the 
Count  arginng  that  it  would  not  be  wise  for  fhem  to  take 
the  train  at  Milan,  wiicre  he  was  well  known,  and  !)y 
some  chance  might  be  recognized.  They  Icff  the  city 
unseen,  as  they  thought ;  but  men  who  plav  fot  >  large 
stake  .«eldom  risk  a  chance  of  failure.  Since  ''k'  1  -•nu-nt 
of  Miss  Alleyn's  abduction  at  the  pass  in  tin  nountains, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Alleyn  had  been  under  t  c  ey^  'f  one  or 
more  of  the  bandits.  Xo  one  came  to  see  them  hitt  these 
men  knew  of  it.  and  folf^nvcd  that  one  back  U>  >\  her 

house  or  hotel.  Edward  had  been  to  see  th(  twice, 
which  made  liim  a  mark'Ml  man.  His  every  ti  -mfnt 
was  watched,  and  when,  tt  midnight  he  and  tli  Count 
quietly  left  the  Count's  home,  they  were  as  quit  fol- 
lowed by  a  cloaked  figure.  This  man  knew  his  p:i'  well, 
for  no  sooner  had  they  started  on  their  way  out  fi  :he 
city  than  he,  by  a  circuitou-^  run,  got  in  front  of  tiem, 
so  that  had  they  seen  him  t  ;ey  would  not  have  thouidit 
anything  of  it.  lie  reached  Hie  station  next  morning  - 
fore  Edward  and  the  Count  who.  on  seeing  him.  t<>.)k 
him  for  a  merchant  like  then  selves.  He  soon  engaged 
them  in  conversation.  They  f<  und  him  a  pleasant-spoken 
fellow,  thougli  not  at  all  intri  sive,  and  by  the  time  the 
train  came  thev  were  all  on  <  nite  friendly  terms.  TFe 
had  been  to  see  some  of  his  "customers,"  and  was  then 
on  his  way  back  to  Lccco  (which  was  the  end  of  the 
railway),  where  he  resided, 

"If,"  said  he,  "you  are  staying  any  time  in  our  city, 


til, 


^1 


I! 

li 


2CX) 


MV   FRIEND   BILL. 


lit! 


Ili- 


I  will  be  pleased  to  show  you  what  little  entertainment 
I  can.  It  is  not  much,  but  if  you  care  for  fine  old  wines, 
I  have  a  small  cellar  which  mv  old  father  stocked  and 
left  to  me.     In  it  I  have  some  passably  fine  vintages." 

Now,  if  he  had  known  the  Count  and  all  his  tender 
points,  he  could  not  have  touched  one  so  close  to  his  heart 
as  that  of  a  well-stocked  wine  cellar,  especially  if  it 
smacked  of  great  age. 

"It  will  consume  no  time  at  all,"  said  he  to  Edward ; 
"besides,  I  am  always  looking  for  choice  old  wines  for 
my  own  cellar."  When  they  reached  Lecco  they  agreed 
that  if  he  would  call  for  them  at  the  inn  in  two  hours 
they  would  go  with  him. 

The  two  hours  were  not  idle  ones  for  the  Lccco  mer- 
chant ( ?).  He  hurried  to  the  suburbs  of  the  city,  where 
he  stopi)€d  at  an  old  house  which  set  back  in  a  cluster  of 
thick-foliaged  trees.  The  house  was  spacious  and  the 
grounds  large.  He  was  greeted  by  the  keeper,  a  beetle- 
browed  man  of  possibly  fifty. 

"Well,  Barrone,  what's  the  lay  now  ?  Another  ransom 
looming  up  over  the  pass?  Has  the  father  of  the  girl 
come  down  handsome  yet?  No?  What's  up?  You 
said  that  was  to  be  a  'gold  mine.'  " 

"Yes,  Colletti,  but  you  see  we  don't  know  how  much 
is  in  the  'mine.'  He  has  offered  'the  ransom  of  a  king,' 
but  we  have  not  investigated  his  'references'  yet.  Ha ! 
ha!  He  may  be  able  to  throw  in  a  few  thousand  more. 
We  have  let  him  know  that  we  will  'name  the  ransom  in 
due  time.'  But  I  am  wasting  precious  minutes.  In  less 
than  two  hours  I  will  drive  here  with  two  young  men. 
They  are  dressed  as  small  merchants,  but  I  don't  think 
either  of  them  could  sell  a  spool  of  thread.  But  that  is 
neither  here  nor  there.  I  have.  Colletti — rememl^er,  / 
have — a  fine  old  wine  cellar,  filled  with  some  verv  choice 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


201 


and  very  old  vintages,  which  1  am  to  show  my  young 
friends.  Remember,  Colletti,  when  1  come  with  them  the 
cellar  is  mine,  and  you  are  in  charge  of  it." 

"Why,  Barrone,  there's  not  been  a  bottle  of  wine  in 
that  hole  for  years." 

"Well,  what's  the  odds  just  so  it  has  a  gm^d.  strong 
door.  Colletti,  it  is  my  cellar  for  two  hours,  and  after 
that  it  is  yours,  and  if  you  don't  keep  a  good  watch  over 
its  lock  for  the  next  month — well,  1  shall  make  my  rcix>rt 
and  you  will  wish  you  had  gone  to  America  before  1  had 
occasion  to  use  your  cellar." 

"But  what  will  I  do  with  the  men,  Barrone?  I  can't 
keep  them  for  a  month !  It  has  l>een  a  long  while  since 
I  saw^  the  color  of  your  gold ;  you  have  promised  me  many 
times  you  would  make  me  rich — rich  so  that  I  might  go 
to  America — but  instead  I  am  not  even  paid  to  look  after 
this  old  property !'' 

"Ah !  but  Colletti,  we  have  never  had  so  rich  a  dove 
before.  It  will  make  us  all  rich,  and  we,  too,  may  go  to 
America — may  have  to  go.     Ha!  ha!" 

As  Barrone  drove  up  to  the  inn  with  an  old  carriage 
which  he  had  hired  for  the  occasion,  he  found  Edward 
and  the  Count  waiting  for  him. 

"I  was  somewhat  delayed,"  he  said,  "as  my  man  was 
away  with  the  carriage,  but  it  will  not  take  us  long  to 
drive  out.  You  will  find  my  old  home  somewhat  gone  to 
decay  from  its  former  grandeur ;  but  you  know  the  young 
men  to-day  have  not  that  care  for  home  which  their 
fathers  had." 

Not  for  one  moment  did  either  of  the  young  men  sus- 
pect treachery.  They  could  see  that  the  place  was  indeed 
gone  to  decay,  but  had  not  the  young  merchant  explained 
that  'tlie  young  men  of  to-day  have  not  the  care  for 
home  which  their  fathers  had'? 


it( 


m 


!  i 


!! 


f 


i  I 


li 


ui 


i; 


i> 


l\ 


202 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


He  called  to  Colletti :     "Here,  my  man,  hold  Cresar, 
and  see  that  he  does  not  get  away,  while  I  show  to  these 
young  merchants  my  wine  cellar.     Did  you   remove  all 
the  bottles   from  the  front,   for  the  new  crop  that  will 
soon   be  coming  in?     Yes?     'Tis   well."     Them  to  Ed- 
ward and  the  Count:     "Our  workmen  in  Lecco  are  like 
they  are  elsewhere,  I  sup[>ose — of  little  value  unless  the 
master  is  about.     Colletti  is  getting  quite  worthless  since 
he  got  the  notion  of  going  to  America ;  but  here  we  are. 
As  I  told  you,  it  is  a  very  old  cellar.     For  generations 
has  it  served  the  Barrones."     He  did  all  the  talking  now 
as  he  led  the  way.     "It  is  old,  but  note  how  strong  the 
door  is  built  into  the  masonry.     We  do  not  build  as  our 
forefathers  built.     Sec  those  bins  and   racks.     Those   I 
just  had  emptied,  and  the  wine  put  back  to  the  farther 
end.     Do  you  see  how  the  spiders  have  been  at  work? 
Ii  all  indicates  great  age.     Here  in  this  room  off  to  the 
left  is  where  I  keep  the  oldest  wines — but,  there !  I  forgot 
the    key.     Here,    Colletti!    Colletti!    bring   me    the    key 
basket !     Colletti,  here !     Excuse  me  till  I  call  him  ;  he  is 
so  stupid— so  stupid— so  (bang!  goes  the  door,  and  the 
key   turns)    stupid.     Gentlemen,   make   yourselves   com- 
fortable ;  but  mind  you  do  not  drink  too  much  of  the  'old 
vintages.'     It  is  not  good  to  be  too  free  with  old  wine. 
I  will  have  your  friends,  the  Alleyns.  call  for  you  in  one 
month.     In  the  meantime  you  have  the  full  run  of  my 
cellar.     Colletti  will  see  that  you  do  not  get  hungry,  pro- 
viding, of  course,  you  shall  keep  him  supplied  with  purses. 
My  dear  friend,  the  Count,  I  shall  always  be  pleased  to 
keep  your  cellar  filled  with  my  choicest  wines.     Cxood- 
bye.  my  dear  young  'merchants' !     While  I  leave  you  to 
enjoy  the  luxuries  of  my  old  vintages,  I  go  to  the  moun- 
tains  to  call   upon  my   queen   of   beauty.     Adieux,   my 
stupid  young  merchants  !     Colletti,  look  to  your  guests  \" 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


203 


All  this  while  the  Count  and  Edward  were  indeed  stupe- 
fied with  horror  at  the  turn  of  affairs.  When  they  real- 
ized fully  the  situation,  they  ran  to  the  door,  or  heavy 
iron  grating,  and  shook  it  with  all  their  strcjigth,  but  they 
had  as  well  try  to  open  the  door  of  a  bank  safe  vault. 
As  Barrone  had  said,  "We  do  not  build  as  our  forefathers 
built." 

No  words  need  be  wasted  here  in  dwelling  uix)n  the 
feelings  of  the  Count  and  Edward  when  they  found  them- 
selves imprisoned  in  this  deep  cellar.  No  castle  prison 
could  have  been  more  secure.  They  took  the  dilapidated 
lamp  which  Barrone  had  set  down  when  he  went  for  the 
key,  and  with  it  examined  every  part  of  the  dungeon,  but 
no  hoi)e  of  escape  could  they  find.  A  real  prison  had 
been  far  better,  for  often  secret  doors  and  passageways 
are  found  in  their  walls  or  floors ;  but  a  wine  cellar  would 
not  be  so  constructed  as  to  be  used  for  a  prison.  It  was 
only  the  fertile  mind  of  Barrone  that  conceived  the  use 
of  this  one  to  hold  the  two  young  men  while  he  and  his 
band  could  effect  a  settlement  with  Mr.  Alleyn.  The 
villain  would  not  kill  them  so  long  as  he  could  thus  keep 
them  out  of  the  way.  They  might  die  of  starvation,  but 
they  must  themselves  look  to  that,  as  Colletti  would  keep 
them  supplied  with  food.  Had  not  uarrone  told  them 
this? 

Barrone  having  given  orders  to  see  that  his  prisoners 
were  looked  after,  he  was  about  to  leave  when  Colletti 
called  to  him : 

"You  have  locked  the  iron  door — where  is  the  key?" 

"I  will  bring  the  key  in  one  month.  You  need  not  give 
yourself  any  thought  on  that  subject." 

"But  then,  suppose  it  be  learned  that  I  am  holding 
them  prisoners — what  will  become  of  me?" 

"Colletti,  it  must  not  be  learned.     No  one  ever  comes 


I:  HI 


U 


if 


I 


I     1 


204 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


^^^^^9^'' 

i 

j^^H^^  ^ 

1 
1 

1 

■BHHfli 

H^^K^Jf' 

■  ■'i 

■  ^ 

1 
( 

here,  so  no  one  Init  you  will  know  they  are  enjoying  the 
run  of  my  wine  cellar.     Ha!  ha!" 

"Hold !  one  more  question.  How  am  I  to  get  them 
food?     I  am  kept  here  half-starved  myself." 

"That  is  not  my  concern.  Adieu,  Colletti.  Look  after 
your  two  young  merchants ;"  and  he  drove  away  with  a 
contented,  villainous  smile  on  his  rather  handsome  face. 

He  returned  to  the  inn  where  Edward  and  the  Count 
had  stopped,  and  said  he  had  been  sent  for  tne  luggage 
of  the  two  young  men ;  that  they  had  concluded  to  walk 
on  to  the  next  village.  The  inn-keeper  protested  that 
they  had  not  paid  for  their  room  or  service,  and  he  could 
not  give  up  their  luggage. 

"That  is  of  no  matter.  I  will  pay  that,  and  a  nice 
penny  to  the  pretty  maids  wdio  serve  you" — this  for  the 
car  of  one  of  the  maids  who  stood  near.  The  inn-keeper 
was  alx)ut  to  send  for  their  luggage  when  a  man  standing 
near  called  him  to  one  side  and  asked : 

"Do  you  know  this  fellow  who  first  drives  away  with 
your  guests  and  then  returns  for  their  belongings  without 
so  much  as  a  written  order?  I  like  not  the  looks  of  this 
fellow.  There  is  that  about  his  face  that  wall  be  worth 
your  careful  w^atch.  Tell  him  you  cannot  give  the  lug- 
gage, and  if  all  is  well  he  w'ill  quickly  overtake  the  young 
men,  who  will  return  for  it  very  shortly." 

"You  judge  wisely.  He  cannot  take  it.  even  though 
lie  now  bring  an  order."  Then  to  Barrone :  "The  lug- 
gage I  will  keep.  Tell  the  young  men  that  they  alone 
may  have  it." 

Barrone  was  very  angry.  He  went  away  declaring 
that  he  would  soon  return  with  the  young  merchants,  who 
would  be  much  annoyed  at  the  inn-keeper's  scant  hospi- 
tality— but  he  did  not  return.  He  found  the  owner  of 
the  carriage,  whom  he  hired  to  take  him  to  the  next  town, 


MY    FRIEND   BILL. 


205 


hough 


and  from  there  he  set  out  on  liis  long  journey  to  the 
rendezvous  of  the  bandits. 

It  was  late  tlie  next  morning  before  Colletti  came  to 
the  door  of  the  "prison,"  and  then  only  after  the  two  had 
called  so  loudly  that  he  feared  they  might  be  heard  by 
some  passerby. 

"Why  all  this  fuss  and  bother?  If  you  continue  to 
make  so  louc.  an  outcry,  I  shall  leave  you  to  call  to  the 
wind.'' 

"You  would  not  starve  us  like  rats  in  a  cage,  would 
you? 

"Not  if  the  rats  had  that  about  them  which  might  pay 
for  their  keep,"  said  Colletti,  venturing  to  see  if  they  had 
any  of  the  purses  Barrone  had  spoken  about. 

"Here,"  said  the  Count,  "take  this  and  get  us  of  the 
best  you  can  buy.  Go  at  once,  for  we  are  weak  with 
hunger.  Ikit,  hold !  first  get  us  water— gallons  of  water 
— water  !     We  are  famishing  of  thirst !" 

They  had  been  shut  in  for  nearly  a  day,  with  no  food, 
and  a  long,  careful  search  had  not  discovered  a  single 
drop  of  wine  in  this  once  well-stored  cellar.  Colletti's 
face  took  on  a  new  look  when  he  saw  the  gold  piece  taken 
from  a  well-filled  purse.  Gold— gold !  How  it  did  make 
his  heart  glad  to  see  it.  He  had  long  served  for  gold 
which  he  had  never  gotten.  It  might  be  paid  to  him 
some  time,  but  that  time  might  never  come.  When  he 
returned  with  the  food  and  water  he  told  them  they 
would  not  need  to  call  to  him  ;  that  he  would  come  often 
to  see  after  their  wants.  His  face  wore  as  near  a  pleasant 
look  as  it  could,  after  long  years  of  frowns  and  scowls. 
His  manner  gave  them  courage  to  beg  of  him  to  release 
them.  "I  couid  not  if  I  wished,  as  Barrone  took  with  him 
the  key ;  but  old  Colletti  is  not  the  man  to  ' 


ray 


1st. 


'  i'. 

:    ii 

:  \ 

<■■  't 

Ii 


;  ! 


(  s 


it  : 


They  often  leave  me  to  go  hungry,  or  work,  but  they 


;y 


206 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


!     J 


il  X., 


know  if  once  they  place  confidence  in  nie  I  will  honor 
It.  No,  you  may  have  no  hope  of  escape  before  one 
month ;  at  the  end  of  that  time  you  will  be  released  if  the 
captive  maiden  is  yet  alive  and  the  ransom  is  paid.  Some- 
times maidens  die  of  grief  before  they  are  ransomed." 

How  this  thought  wrung  Edward's  heart!  While  he 
was  helpless  behind  iron  grating  his  "queen"  might  die 
of  grief !  Why  had  he  been  so  really  stupid  to  be  thus 
duped  by  a  stranger !  That  evening  they  tried  to  engage 
their  keeper  in  conversation,  but  he  would  not  talk,  save 
when  he  felt  he  might  wring  gold  from  them.  It  is  said 
that  no  armor  of  mail  was  ever  made  that  did  not  have 
in  it  some  weak  link,  through  which  the  well-aimed  arrow 
might  not  pierce.  To  find  that  weak  link  was  now  their 
only  hope.  "Gold?"  No,  they  had  tried  to  buy  their 
way  out  to  no  avail. 

"I  love  gold,"  said  he;  "but  they  will  give  me  gold, 
when  once  they  get  the  ransom." 

Had  not  Barrone  spoken  of  America?  Ah!  that  may 
be  the  one  weak  link.  Colletti  had  risen  to  go  from  the 
door-stoop,  wdiere  he  had  been  sitting  after  bringing  them 
their  supper. 

"Have  you  ever  been  to  America?"  asked  Edward. 
This  hardened  villain's  whole  being  seemed  to  change  at 
that  simple  question.  He  sat  down  again,  and  where  be- 
fore he  had  spoken  in  monosyllables  or  short,  sullen  sen- 
tences, he  now  became  almost  a  fountain  of  words.  He 
had  not  been.  He  had  always  wanted  to  go.  He  had 
friends  there  who  were  writing  to  him  to  come.  Amer- 
ica !  America !  would  he  ever  see  that  land  ? 

"I  know  many  of  your  people  in  America,"  said  Ed- 
ward. "It  was  from  them  I  learned  your  be^iutiful  lan- 
guage. Some  of  them  are  poor;  I  have  often  helped 
them  in  their  poverty ;"  and  thinking  he  might  he  touched 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


20J 


by  gratitude  for  kindness  shown  to  his  people,  Edward 
told  of  hovv  he  had  once  gone  to  see  a  family  who  had  a 
crippled  child,  a  boy  of  live  years.  "When  1  saw  this 
poor  little  fellow  trying  to  walk  and  crying  because  he 
could  not,  my  heart  went  out  to  him.  I  put  him  under 
the  care  of  one  of  our  best  surgeons,  and  had  the  grati- 
fication of  seeing  him  walk  as  well  as  any  of  his  play- 
fellows. He  was,  oh,  so  happy!  '1  wish  I  could  pay 
you  for  my  walking,'  he  would  say;  'and  when  my  grand- 
papa comes  I  will.  My  grandpapa  will  be  very  rich  some 
time.  He  lives  away  off  in  Italy!'  The  little  fellow 
would  often  run  to  me,  and  always  say,  'When  my  grand- 
papa comes  I  will  pay  you.'  " 

Colletti  drank  in  every  word  of  Edward's  story,  and 
when  it  was  finished,  seemed  to  te  stupefied  wdth  wonder. 
"Oh!"  said  he,  "tell  me  the  name  of  that  child — that  little 
crippled  boy.  It  cannot  be — it  cannot  be!  So  strange! 
So  strange!"  and  he  was  so  absorbed  that  Edward  had 
almost  to  arouse  him. 

"His  name,"  said  Edward,  "was  Tony  Colletti— the  son 
of  a  stone-carver  of  the  same  name." 

The  keeper  was  almost  like  a  man  out  of  his  mind. 
"Are  you  the  good  young  man  they  wrote  al)OUt  who  had 
done  so  much  for  mine  in  that  far-off  America?  Oh! 
what  have  1  done! — what  have  I  done!  Is  this  how  I 
am  repaying  that  kindness?  How  I  had  often  wished 
to  go  to  America  to  hunt  you  out  and  thank  you — to  1>le,ss 
you  for  what  you  had  done!  I  must  not  stay  here  a 
minute — I  will  break  down  the  door!  Gold — a  mine  of 
't — could  not  keep  you  behind  that  iron  door!"  And  in 
less  than  an  hour  he  had  battered  the  door  off  its  hinges, 
arid  Edward  and  the  Count  breathed  the  free  air  again. 

"I  have  often  heard  our  air  praised,"  said  the  Count; 
"but  never  before  have  I  fullv  felt  how  it  merited  it!" 


i 

I 


11  f 


M 


w 


\  i 

!  I 


\m 


h 


208 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


Every  minute  was  now  precious;  but  Edward  knew 
that  the  only  safety  for  Colletti  was  to  get  him  away  and 
out  of  the  country,  for  death  is  ItaHan  pay  for  betrayal 
of  trust.  "You  h'ave,"  said  Edward  to  the  keeper,  "httle 
time  to  waste  in  Italy.  You  must  go  at  once  to  Milan, 
from  thence  to  Genoa,  where  you  can  take  a  steamer  to 
New  York.  There  is  all  the  gold  you  will  need— and 
some  to  spare  when  you  reach  that  city.  If  I  shall  come 
out  of  this  and  get  back  to  New  York,  I  will  see  that 
you  shall  never  be  wanting  a  friend." 

Colletti  would  nave  detained  them  with  profusions  of 
gratitude.     He  would  even  risk  his  life  to  go  with  them 
and  point  out  the  intricate  way  to  the  rendezvous  of  the 
bandits,  but  they  would  not  accept  his  ofifer.     He  then 
described  as  minutely  as  he  could  the  way,  but  the  many 
towns  and  villages  he  named  only  confused  them.       It 
will  take  you  four  days  to  reach  the  mountain  pass,  and 
the  place  where  the  maiden  is  held  is  a  half-day's  walk 
to  the  northwest.     Should  you  gain  the  camp  and  rescue 
the  maiden,  there  is  another  way  out  from  it  to  the  south- 
west along  a  beautiful  valley.     This  is  the  safer  way,  as 
it  leads  into  a  country  where  the  bandits  have  not  the 
influence  or  the  friends  they  have  over  the  other  course. 
Then  over  this  course  they  will  not  look  for  you,  as  no 
one  knows  of  it  but  their  own  people."     He  gave  them 
much  else  of  useful  direction. 

When  they  returned  to  the  inn  they  learned  how  nearly 
they  had  lost  their  means  of  reaching  the  camp  of  the 
bandits,  and  were  so  grateful  to  the  inn-keeper  that  they 
paid  him  for  all  the  time  they  had  spent  in  the  wine 
cellar,  and  left  besides  a  pretty  penny  for  each  of  the 
maids,  who  curtsied  their  thanks  as  the  two  young  men 
left,  still  in  their  merchants'  suits.  These,  however,  they 
'   exchanged  for  their  minstrel  garb  in  a  forest  when  they 


MY  FRIEND   BILL. 


209 


i  knew 
ay  and 
(Ctrayal 
,  "little 
Milan, 
imer  to 
(1 — and 
11  come 
;ee  that 


had  gotten  well  out  of  Lecco,  lest  they  should  be  seen 
by  others  of  the  bandits,  who  might  know  through  Bar- 
rone  of  the  "two  young  merchants." 

When  they  were  fully  dressed  as  minstrels  they  were 
both  surprised  at  the  complete  change  it  made  in  their 
appearance. 

"Even  Barrone  would  not  know  us  in  these,"  said  Ed- 
ward.    The  merchants'  clothes  were  left  in  the  forest. 


I 


jions  of 
th  them 
s  of  the 
ie  then 
le  many 
m.     "It 
ass,  and 
^'s  walk 
d  rescue 
e  south- 
way,  as 
not  the 
■  course, 
u,  as  no 
Lve  them 


'  ;  ! 


w  nearly 
p  of  the 
that  they 
the  wine 
h  of  the 
ung  men 
:ver,  they 
hen  they 


ilj 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 


II" 


A  minstrel  is  the  friend  of  all.  The  money  of  the  peasant 
zvill  bny  as  much  as  the  king's.  The  gold  of  the 
bandit  zcill  go  as  far  as  the  priest's. 

Little  of  interest  occurred  for  the  first  two  days.  Tliey 
stopi^ed  at  night  at  some  wayside  inn,  where  a  mountain 
minstrel  is  always  welcome.  Their  music  attracted 
wherever  the}-  stopped  to  i)lay.  Many  remarked  that 
such  singing  they  had  never  heard.  The  money  which 
was  given  them  was  always  added  to  and  found  its  .way 
to  some  needy  old  man  or  woman  many  of  whom  they 
met  as  they  went  along. 

One  nigiit  they  were  not  fortunate  in  finding  an  inn, 
and  had  to  lie  down  under  the  stars,  hut  their  sleep  was 
as  sound  and  as  sweet  as  on  the  softest  of  beds.  In  the 
morning  they  awoke  long  before  the  sun  was  up.  The 
dew  covered  all  the  grass  around ;  the  birds  sang  out  thpiV 
joy,  a  distant  tinkle  of  sheep-bells  was  heard  away  up 
along  the  mountain  side;  the  barking  of  a  dog  in  the 
valley  beneath  them ;  the  loud  voice  of  a  mountaineer  try- 
ing to  sing  some  song  he  had  heard  a  minstrel  sing ;  the 
lowing  of  cows  being  driven  home  for  milking  time ;  the 
murmuring  brook,  purling  its  way  along  down  the  moun- 
tain, and  a  hundred  other  sights  and  sounds — filled  the 
hearts  of  the  two  minstrels.  Soon  the  sun  came,  shooting 
its  rays  over  a  distant  mountain  range,  turning  into  a 
million  diamonds  the  dewdrops  on  the  grass  and  then 


2IO 


MV 


i;M; 


_  1  F 


'Iniikiiig  them  iq,  at  a  (|uafL     (  )!,.  uw  .   of  ..     c.irU 

morning,  in  the  Alps  I  The  num  wh.>s.  l,te  has  always 
been  spent  in  the  city  knows  n,.t  the  joss  ,.|  -he  mnitry 
niorninj^^! 

It  was  the  evening  of  the  third  dav.     The  minstrels  ha.l 
made  such  excellent  use  of  their  time  that  thev  were  but 
a  short  distance  from  the  memorable   Pass.  'They  had 
reached  -«  considerable  hamlet.     The  gav  dresses  of  the 
S-Jrls  and  the  "best  clothes*'  of  the  youn-  man  bespoke  a 
gala  night.     Kdward  and  the  Count  were  hailed  with  joy 
as  they  were  seen  cntcrino;  the  village  just  at  nightfali. 
Music  IS  ever  welcome.     From  the  tent  of  tiie  wandering 
Bedouin  to  the  palace  of  the  king  it  brings  jov.     A  musi- 
cian needs  no  introduction.    The  world  only  recognizes  his 
music.     The  singer  is  forgotten  in  the  song.     After  the 
two  young  men  had  partaken  of  their  supper,  the  prettiest 
girls  vicing  with  each  other  in    serving    them  with  the 
best  the  inn  provided,  they  uere  conducted  into  the  large 
square  room,  where  all  had  gathered  to  hear  the  music. 
Two  other  minstrels  were  there  and  were  singing  as  Ed- 
ward and  the  Count  came  in  from  the  supper  room.     They 
had  soft  iuelodious  voices,  but  there  was  no  volume  to 
their  music.     They  sang  a  number  of  songs  and  duets,  and 
sang  them  well  as  they  had  wisely  chosen  songs  of  little 
compass.     These  minstrels  were  well  known  to  the  com- 
pany.    They  had  passed  up  and  down  for  vcars  along  that 
mountain  road.     lUit  here  were  luo  whom  no  one  there 
had  ever  seen.     They  came  into  the  hamlet  unheralded. 
Who  they  were  or  from  whence  thev  came  no  one  of  that 
la.ge  company  could  tell.     And  for  that  matter  no  one 
asked.     Not  who  they  were,  but  could  thev  sing?  that  was 
the  silent  question  in  the  mind  of  every  one  present.     The 
two  minstrels  have  ceased  singing.    The  company,  now  all 
expectant,  await  the  opening  song  of  the  unknown  singers. 


1 
I 


!  I 


■ 


212  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

These  people,  unlettered  and  unlearned,  had  in  tlieni  an  ni- 
boni  knowledge  of  nuis'c.  They  might  not  sing  or  play 
themselves,  but  their  ears  were  attuned  to  the  good  and 
could  quicklv  detect  the  bad. 

Edward  and  the  Count  knew  that  to  give  lasting  pleas- 
ure they  must  not  sing  their  best  songs  iirst.  They  wtnild 
sing  a  simple  ballad  of  the  class  sung  by  the  other  min- 
strels. This  thev  did,  and  all  about  the  room  could  be 
heard  unfavorable  comments.  "They  cannot  sing  with 
our  old  minstrels." 

"No  such  singers  as  our  own." 
"Give  us  the  old  ones." 
•'We  expected  more  from  their  appearance." 
"No  singers  like  our  own,"  and  many  more  in  like  criti- 
cism.    The  musician,  naturally  a  jealous  being,  is  never 
happier  than  when  his  rival  fails  to  please.     The  old  mm- 
strels  fairlv  beamed  with  joy  when,  at  the  close  of  the 
song,  it  was  given  but  faint  demonstration  of  pleasure. 
That  was  what  the  singers  had  expected  and  wished  for. 
They  knew  the  company  had  judged  them  by  their  first 
song.     The  next  one  was   better  received,  and  each  one 
thereafter  was  given  more  applause.     They  were  now  far 
beyond  the  old  singers.     No  comments  could  be  heard  but 
those  of  praise.     Thev  would  sing  one  more,  their  best. 
It  was  a  duet.     They  began  soft  and  plaintively,  then 
gradually  increasing  in  volume,  until  it  grew  into  a  mus- 
ical tempest.     The  whole  company  rose  long  before  they 
had  finished,  and  when  they  had  done  a  great  storm  of 
applause  followed,  and  for  minutes  nothing  could  be  heard 
but  the  cheer  on  cheer  of  the  wildly  excited  company. 
'     They  sat  down  as  though  they  had  but  sung  a  simple 
ballad.     There  was  no  look  about  them  that  showed  they 
felt  they  had  done  other  than  ordinary— even  the  old  min- 


MV    FRIKNU   BILL. 


213 


strels,  looking  on  iIkih  as  niasicrs.  canu'  and   thanked 
them. 

No  such  nuisic  has  ever  been  heard  in  these  parts!" 

Fortunately  a  minstrel  is  never  asked  his  name  or  his 
hoim-.     They  have  no  home,  and  any  name  will  answer. 

They  had  scarcely  concluded  their  sinj^inj^"  when  word 
was  quietly  given  them  "would  they  come  into  the  adjoin- 
ing room  ?"  They  followed  the  messenger  and  were  con- 
ducted into  the  presence  of  a  man,  whose  like  they  had 
1  either  ever  met  with.  1  le  was  tall  and  broad  shouldered. 
His  face  was  covered  with  a  heavy  beard.  His  hands 
were  large,  and  at  the  ends  of  powerful  arms,  (le  was  a 
giant  in  strength  as  well  as  in  stature,  and  yel  he  had  a 
kindly  spoken  voice,  and  seemed  even  gentle  in  maiuier, 

"A  minstrel,"  he  began  when  the  messenger  had  left  the 
room  and  the  three  were  alone,  "is  the  friend  of  all.  He 
knows  no  man  or  class  of  men.  They  are  all  the  same  to 
him.  The  money  of  the  peasant  will  l)uy  as  much  as  the 
king's.  The  gold  of  the  bandit  will  go  as  far  with  him  as 
the  priest's.  I  have  heard  you  sing.  1  have  never  l)efore 
heard  voices  equal  to  yours.  I  am  a  man  of  few  words 
and  speak  to  a  purpose.  1  am  a  bandit.  1  am  called  a 
leader.  The  government  wants  my  head,  but  no  one  will 
risk  his  own  for  the  prize  offered  for  mine — knowing  all 
this  are  you  afraid  of  me?"  They  smilingly  assured  him 
they  were  not. 

"Why  should  we  be?  A  minstrel  fears  no  man,  as  no 
man  is  his  enemy." 

"Then  listen  to  what  I  would  tell  you,"  said  the  bandit. 
"At  our  camp,  but  a  few  miles  to  the  northwest  from  here, 
we  hold  a  captive  for  a  ransom.  She  is  the  most  beauti- 
ful maiden  whom  any  of  us  have  ever  seen.  She  is  pining 
av.'av.  and  we  fear  she  mav  die  before  a  ransom  can  be 
agreed  upon.     We  had  it  almost  concluded  when  a  young 


m 
pi- 


SH 


214 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


American  came  to  Alilan  and  saw  her  father,  since  which 
time  hiC  will  do  nothing.  Jjiit  with  this  meddlesome 
American  and  his  friend,  Count  Drasco,  safe  in  our  power 
at  Lecco  we  will  soon  effect  a  settlement,  but  every  day's 
delay  makes  the  danger  of  her  death  more  imminent.  I  am 
thus  explicit  that  you  may  see  the  situation  and  be  ready 
for  my  oft"er.  I  want  you  to  come  to  our  camp  and  sing 
for  the  maiden.  I  am  convinced  that  vour  voices  will 
cheer  her  until  we  can  arrange  with  the  father.  Will  you 
come?     I  will  pay  you  what  you  ask." 

''Our  mission,''  said  Edward,  "is  to  cheer,  to  make  dull 
life  endurable,  to  make  the  sad  forget  trouble,  and  the 
whole  world  happy.     We  will  accept." 

"You  will  not  regret  your  answer.  I  will  call  for  you 
here  in  the  morning."  They  saw  him  no  more  that  night. 
They  returned  to  the  large  room,  but  were  not  prepared 
for  the  sight  which  met  them.  Five  men  on  either  side 
stood  facing  each  other  with  round  sticks  an  inch  in  thick- 
ness and  three  feet  long  in  their  right  hands.  At  a  signal 
they  began  striking,  each  man  at  the  one  opposite,  as 
though  in  sword  play.  The  blows  were  given  in  deadly 
earnest,  and  yet  all  the  while  the  girls  sat  around  the  sides 
of  the  room  and  seemed  really  to  enjoy  the  sight.  One 
after  another  of  the  men  were  knocked  down,  and  a  fall 
meant  out.  This  kept  up  until  but  two  were  left,  and  the 
one  remaining  of  these  two  was  declared  the  victor.  Xo 
one  seemed  to  feel  ill  at  the  fellow  knocking  him  down, 
but  took  it  in  good  part.  Imagine  the  surprise  of  Edward 
and  the  Count  to  see  the  victor  on  this  occasion  the  man 
who  had  left  them  in  his  wine  cellar — the  villain  Barrone. 
He  was  very  much  elated  at  his  success,  and  passed  around 
the  room  bantering  the  various  young  men  to  try  their 
bfkill.  When  he  came  to  Edward  he  stopped,  looked  at 
him,  was  about  to  pass  on,  when  some  one  called  out : 


■J 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


215 


"Rarrone,  beware  of  a  minstrel.     He  travels  in  many  lands 
and  learns  many  things." 

"That  for  your  minstrel,"  as  he  slapped  the  face  of 
Edward.  In  an  instant  the  thought  of  what  this  villain 
had  done  to  him  and  his  friend,  and  the  insult  of  the  slap 
added  to  his  villainy,  was  too  much  for  Edward's  Ameri- 
can blood,  and  he  called  out  "Accept"  amid  the  loud  cheer- 
ing of  the  girls,  whose  favorite  he  instantly  became.  He 
was  given  one  of  the  sticks,  and  found  himself  facing  his 
enemy,  this  time  on  an  eijual  footing.  He  had  profited 
by  watching  the  others  fence,  and  learned  that  it  was  the 
same  as  sword  fencing.  He  soon  saw  he  need  have  no 
fear  of  Barrone,  who  began  striking  viciously  but  very 
wildly.  His  strokes  were  cleverly  parried,  and  for  sev- 
eral minutes,  to  the  great  pleasure  of  his  friends,  he  did 
nothing  but  prevent  Barrone  striking  him.  When  he  had 
kept  this  up  quite  long  enough  he  put  into  his  arm  all  the 
force  of  an  outraged  spirit,  and  struck  such  a  blow  as 
none  of  them  had  ever  seen  fall  upon  a  man's  head  before. 
It  was  an  hour  before  Barrone  came  to  his  senses,  but  no 
one  noticed  him,  while  everylx>dy  heaped  praises  on  the 
minstrel.  Even  Barrone  himself,  when  he  came  to, 
grasped  his  hand  and  congratulated  him  with  no  enmity 
whatsoever.  The  Count's  silent  nod  of  approval  was  far 
sweeter  than  all  the  spoken  praises.  The  look  that  Ed- 
ward gave  back  meant :     "Part  of  that  blow  was  for  you." 

Physical  injury  meant  nothing  to  these  people.  If  the 
injured  were  not  themselves,  a  man  might  l)e  killed,  and 
they  would  think  but  little  of  it.  After  the  company  was 
about  all  gone  a  young  man,  who  had  been  quite  friendly 
toward  Edward,  said  in  a  matter-of-fact  sort  of  way:  "I 
wonder  if  they  have  found  out  who  that  fellow  was  Ama- 
billi  killed  this  afternoon  up  at  the  Pass?" 

"Why,"  said  Edward,  horrified  at  the  thought,  "I  hadn't 


li 


2l6 


MY  FRIEND   BILL. 


I  n 


•:l 


heard  of  it,  tell  me  about  it — you  mean  Amabilli  who  was 
here  to-night?" 

"Yes,  he  came  down  to  bring  word  about  it.  You  see 
the  fellow  came  up  here  meddling  around  about  a  girl  that 
Amabilli  has  up  at  the  camp.  Yes,  the  fellow  is  out  here 
in  the  shed  now.     They  brought  him  in  this  evening." 

"And  did  the  people  who  were  here  know  about  it?" 
asked  Edward.  The  Count  trying  all  the  while  to  catch 
his  eye  to  stop  such*  dangerous  questioning. 

"Yes — why  do  you  ask?  of  course  they  knew.  Where 
do  you  live,  my  friend?  You're  not  a  "gov  gilly,"  are 
you,  up  here  singing  round  to  capture  the  25,000  francs?" 

"What  are  you  talking  about,  you  fellows?"  broke  in  the 
Count,  who  saw  the  dangerous  turn  matters  had  taken  by 
Edward's  honest  line  of  thought — then  continued  before 
his  question  could  be  answered:  "Speaking  of  girls,  you 
have  some  very  pretty  ones  here.  It's  a  wonder  we  never 
found  this  place  before.  Hereafter  this  must  be  added  to 
our  circuit.  You  see,  we  have  traveled  a  good  bit  in 
Tyrol.  Now  there's  the  country  where  they  can  sing — 
everybody  sings,  and  Germany — w"hy  even  the  Russians 
are  a  musical  set.  And  the  Finlanders — "  It  is  hard 
telling  where  he  would  have  gone  had  not  the  landlord 
said  he  always  made  it  a  point  to  close  up  before  breakfast, 
and  they  would  have  to  defer  their  musical  travels  until 
to-morrow.  It  was  a  question  in  the  Count's  mind  if  he 
had  gotten  the  young  man  far  enough  away  from  the  other 
young  man  in  the  shed,  but  he  certainly  hoped  he  had, 
else  he  and  Edward  might  next  day  be  called  upon  to  join 
him  instead  of  going  to  sing,  as  Edward  would  say,  "be- 
fore the  Queen." 

"Would  the  young  man  call  to  see  them  in  the  morn- 
ing?" The  young  man  eyed  Edward  very  closely  and 
critically,  and  said  "he  thought  he  would." 


are 


CHAPTER  XL. 

What  another  will  zcatch  for  the  comiyig  of  an  absent  son? 
What  maiden  urill  zuait  for  him  zvho  zvill  never  return 
to  her? 

The  Count  talked  in  very  low  tones  after  they  had  gone 
to  their  room,  but  Edward  must  have  heard  him.  As  to 
his  questions  thereafter,  he  said  "he  would  never  again  be 
curious  about  anything."  "Put  all  your  gold  carelessly," 
said  the  Count,  "under  the  center  of  your  bed  and  your 
minstrel  purse  of  small  coins  under  your  pillow,  as  this  is 
a  strange  country  we  are  in,  and  often  strange  countries 
have  peculiar  ways." 

Now  all  about  the  inn  was  still,  the  people  of  the  hamlet 
and  country  side  had  gone  their  various  ways,  and  where 
a  short  time  before  was  heard  boisterous  laughter  and 
rough  merriment  was  now  silence. 

At  some  distance  from  the  inn,  seated  on  a  rude  bench, 
might  have  been  seen  two  men  in  low  converse. 

"I  like  not  those  minstrels,"  said  the  younger  man. 
"They  are  far  too  curious  for  minstrels.  To-night  when 
I  spoke  about  the  fellow  whom  Amabilli  had  to  run 
through  for  his  meddling,  the  larger  one  of  them,  the  one 
who  came  so  nearly  leaving  you  a  fit  companion  for  Ama- 
billi's  young  fellow  in  the  shed  there,  wanted  to  know  *if 
the  people  v^iho  were  here  to-night  knew  there  w.qs  a  de.ad 
man  so  near?' " 


:  i 


i\-- 


t^''l 


217 


2l8 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


i 


"And  what,"  queried  Barrone,  his  comi>anion,  '^did  you 
reply  to  his  question  ?" 

"I  was  so  surprised  at  the  utter  innocence  of  it  that  it 
struck  me  that  he  could  not  be  a  minstrel,  as  a  minstrel 
knows  our  ways  and  asks  not  questions  so  simple. 
'Where,'  1  asked,  *do  you  live,  my  friend?'  and  further, 
^You're  not  a  "gov  gilly"  singing  round  to  capture  the 
25,000  francs,  are  you  ?'  Well,  the  other  one  saw  the  turn 
I  took  on  him,  and  had  you  heard  the  race  he  led  me 
through  Tyrol,  up  through  Germany  and  Russia,  leaving 
me  to  freeze  in  Finland,  you  would  have  thought  he  was 
more  than  anxious  to  get  me  out  and  away  from  my  own 
little  hamlet  here  in  the  mountains.  No,  Barrone,  I  like 
not  the  minstrels,  and  yet  do  you  know  that  Amabilli  has 
engaged  them  to  go  to  the  camp  to  siwg  for  your  beautiful 
maiden  ?'' 

"What,  and  not  speak  of  it  to  me?  I  like  not  this  in 
Amabilli.  These  minstrels  may  be  armed,  and  I  am  too 
well  aware  that  one  of  them,  at  least,  knows  how  to  use 
arms.  Go,"  said  the  bandit,  "and  search  well  for  arms — 
and  their  purses  for  your  trouble.  There,  take  these  two 
vials.  If  they  sleep  not  sound  use  the  larger  one.  Its 
odor  is  a  sweet  sleep  enticcr,  and  you  need  fear  no  awaken- 
ing until  you  have  examined  every  part  of  their  belong- 
ings. If  they  be  as  you  suspect  other  than  minstrels,  they 
will  have  arms  secreted,  and  if  so  much  as  a  knife  you 
find — use  the  smaller  vial.  You  know  the  secret  door  to 
their  chamber.  Go,  and  if  to-morrow  the  priest  have 
three  instead  of  one  to  read  over,  he  will  ask  no  questions. 
Our  priest  knows  the  simple  ways  of  his  parish.  I  will 
await  you  here." 

"Were  I  not  certain  that  the  two  young  merchants  were 
safe  in  the  wine  cellar,  I  would  thnik  that  merchant  could 
turn  minstrel.     In  form  and  bearing  these  minstrels  are 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


219 


did  you 

t  that  it 

iiinstrel 

simple. 

further, 

lire  the 

the  turn 

led  me 

leaving 

he  was 

ny  own 

n'i  like 

)illi  has 

eautiful 

this  in 
am  too 
■  to  use 
arms — 
ese  two 
le.  Its 
waken- 
belong- 
Is,  they 
ife  you 
door  to 
st  have 
estions. 
I  will 

ts  were 
it  could 
'els  are 


my  two  merchants,  but  here  is  the  key,  and  old  Collitti 
never  betrayed  a  trust."  And  Barrone  smiled  on  in  his 
soliloquy,  and  waited  the  return  of  his  messenger.  "And 
what  must  be  the  account  for  Amabilli's  victim?  Ama- 
billi  has  too  many  of  late  to  account  for.  Ah,  I  have  it ! 
To  let  it  be  known  that  this  one  is  an  Englishman  would 
be  to  bring  that  government  upon  our  heads,  as  England 
avenges  a  wrong  done  its  most  humble  citizen.  And  this 
young  man,  I  should  judge,  is  far  above  the  humble  rank. 
I  will  report  to  Milan  that  a  young  American  has  met  his 
death  in  the  mountain  pass.  1  will  describe  him,  having 
in  mind  the  young  man  who  stopixxl  our  negotiations  with 
old  Alleyn.  Ha,  ha,  I'arrone.  your  wisdom  is  deep.  This 
will  serve  a  double  purpose,  it  will  keep  us  out  of  Eng- 
lish investigation  and  open  again  the  way  to  effect  a  set- 
tlement with  old  Alleyn — and  as  for  America — well, 
America  is  too  nuich  occupied  with  money  gaining  to 
care  for  a  lone  citizen  who  may  chance  to  have  stood  at  the 
wrong  end  of  a  sword  in  a  foreign  land.  They  may  in- 
vestigate, but  that  has  a  far  different  meaning  in  America. 
No  one  fears  it — but  here  comes  Fulcc3 — and  what  have 
you  learned,  Fulco?" 

"T  have  learned  that  I  am  a  fool  and  should  be  beaten 
with  stripes.  I  found  not  so  much  as  a  tooth  pick,  and  as 
for  purses  for  my  trouble,  when  I  saw  the  contents  of 
the  two  I  found  under  their  pillows  I  had  not  the  heart  to 
touch  a  single  centime.  I  have  wronged  the  minstrels,  I 
gained  their  chamber  with  not  so  mucii  as  a  creak  of  the 
door.  I  let  each  have  a  good  whiff  from  the  larger  vial, 
but  they  seemed  so  sound  asleep  already  that  it  was  of 
scant  need.  I  looked  in  every  part  of  their  clothing.  I 
even  examined  their  clumsy-looking  guitars  for  so  much 
as  a  knife  inside,  but  found  nothing.  I  fear  that  they  may 
have  taken  it  ill  my  inquisitive  speech  to  them  this  night, 


m 


in 


;ri 


220 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


ii'j 


but  I  will  make  it  up  to  them  in  the  morning."  And  so 
agreeable  was  his  manner  toward  them  when  next  they 
met,  that  they  were  reassured  that  there  was  no  danger. 
He  took  them  to  see  the  slain  man  in  the  shed,  nor  marked 
the  look  of  horror  on  Edward's  face  at  the  sight !  There 
lay  a  youth  of  about  his  own  age,  handsome  as  a  Greek 
god.  His  dark  hair  clung  in  rich  waves  around  his  high 
forehead,  and  he  looked  as  though  in  happy  sleep.  "What 
mother,"  thought  Edward,  ''will  watch  for  the  coming  of 
an  absent  son?  What  maiden  will  wait  for  him  w^ho  will 
never  return  to  her?"  To  avenge  that  life  would  be  his 
mission.  If  not,  he,  too,  would  meet  the  same  fate.  He 
silently  swore  it!  While  they  yet  stood  looking  on  the 
face  of  the  dead,  the  priest  came,  and  without  so  much  as 
a  glance  of  interest,  read  a  short  service,  and  went  as  he 
came,  in  silence.  They  buried  the  young  Englishman 
under  a  tree  nearby  and  thought  the  chapter  was  ended. 


l"*f 


I' ) 


ii 


And  so 
ext  they 

danger. 

•  marked 

There 

a  Greek 

his  high 

"What 
miing  of 
who  will 
!d  be  his 
ite.  He 
(  on  the 
much  as 
nt  as  he 
:;'lishman 
ended. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

She  stands  resplendent  in  her  beauty.  That  face  which 
had  first  appeared  to  him  in  a  tomb  of  the  dead  of 
thousands  of  years  appears  again  in  the  tomb  of  the 
living. 

Early  in  the  forenoon  came  AmabilH.  So  gentle  was 
his  manner  that  Edward  could  scarce  believe  him  the 
monster  he  knew  him  to  be. 

"Good  morrow,  gentlemen.  I  trust  your  night  has  been 
happily  spent !  I  had  come  earlier,  but  my  captive  maiden 
is  more  despondent  than  ever.  We  have  promised  her  so 
often  that  she  would  soon  be  released,  that  she  is  losing  all 
her  spirit,  and  refuses  the  daintiest  food  we  can  prepare 
for  her.  I  have  promised  her  music.  The  promise 
brought  a  faint  flush  to  her  pale  cheek.  The  change  from 
the  rough  voices  she  has  heard  so  long  will  bring  back  the 
color  to  that  cheek." 

"Barrone,  have  you  sent  your  report?  What  have  you 
heard  from  Milan?" 

"Alleyn  is  beginning  to  waver.  He  has  added  one  thou- 
sand pounds  to  the  ransom,"  said  Barrone. 

"Ah,  it  is  working  well — we  will  be  in  no  haste  to  settle 
— but  what  report  have  you  sent  ?" 

"I  have  just  sent  a  messenger  that  a  young  American 
was  slain  while  in  a  quarrel !" 

"Bright  idea.  'Tis  well  you  did  not  report  him  an  Eng- 
lishman, as  that  had  given  us  trouble."     This  brought  a 

221 


!| 


s  t 


i  !■• 


i  i  ■  t^rM 


i 
i  ■ 

ill 


liii 


s 

'^'■1 


i; 


Aammitutimik 


!i 


222 


MY    FRIEND   BILL. 


flush  of  slianic  to  Edwarcrs  face,  to  hear  his  own  country 
held  in  so  light  esteem  by  these  rough  bandits. 

"And  now,  gentlemen,  we  will  away  to  the  camp.  You 
will  find  the  way  a  very  rough  one.  but  we  must  clKX>se  a 
retreat  where  ten  men  may  withstand  a  hundred,  liar- 
rone,  come  to  the  camp  to-morrow.  Fulco,  remain  here, 
and  bring  to  us  the  slightest  word  of  danger,  or  if  you 
hear  from  Milan  bring  us  the  report  at  once.'' 

"i^ough  way"  conveyed  no  conception  of  what  they 
found.  Although  the  distance  was  comparatively  short, 
its  turns  in  and  out  of  canyon  after  canyon — up  ascents 
that  required  such  long  tedious  climliing  that  they  were 
well  worn  out  by  the  time  they  had  reached  their  destina- 
tion. 

Edward's  mind  was  filled  with  forebodings  of  evil. 
Suppose  liis  Qu(.?n  could  be  gotten  away  from  under  the 
watchful  eyes  of  these  rugged  men,  how  could  he  ever 
hope  to  escape  over  a  i)ath  so  rough?  A  path  known  so 
well  to  these  men  that  they  could  traverse  its  most  intricate 
parts  even  in  the  dark  ?  And  yet  he  would  not  lose  hope. 
"He  would  try,"  had  he  not  said,  "even  though  he  were 
slain?" 

As  they  neared  the  camp,  located  on  a  h'x'x^i  plateau 
which  commanded  a  view  of  miles  of  mountain  country, 
they  passed  sentry  after  sentry  until  they  reached  a  large 
tent,  around  which  were  clustered  ether  smaller  ones.  It 
was  almost  dark.  The  fires  were  lighted  in  crevasses  of 
the  rocks,  and  women,  little  less  rough  looking  than  the 
men — who  sat  around  smoking — were  preparing  supper. 
No  one  gave  any  heed  to  the  minstrels.  The  sight  of  min- 
strels was  conmion  enough  in  these  rough  mountain  wilds. 

\Mien  the  supper  was  set  and  all  were  seated  around 
on  the  ground,  an  old  woman  came  out  from  the  large 
tent  leading  a  pale  young  creature — not  leading,  but  sup- 


}•  !' 


MY    FRIEND    BILL. 


22S 


country 

).    You 

hoose  a 
.  V.'dv- 
m  here, 
•  if  you 

at  they 
Y  short, 
ascents 
}y  were 
destina- 

of  evil, 
ider  the 
he  ever 
lown  so 
ntricate 
se  hope, 
le  were 

plateau 

country, 

a  large 

nes.     It 

asses  of 

han  the 

supper. 

of  min- 

n  wilds. 

around 

le  large 

)Ut  sup- 


porting. She  seemed  so  weak,  this  maiden,  that  even  with 
the  support  of  the  old  woman  she  could  scarcely  walk. 
She  looked  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left.  She  saw 
not  the  minstrels,  though  she  passed  them  by  to  take  her 
scat  on  a  rock.  The  daintiest  food  was  set  Ix'fore  her, 
but  she  scarcely  touched  of  it.  and  was  soon  assisted  back 
to  the  tent.  After  the  supper  was  hnished  and  everything 
cleared  away,  Amabilli  motioned  for  the  minstrels  to 
come  and  sit  at  the  opening  of  the  large  tent  and  to  sing. 

Low,  sweet  music  broke  the  stillness  of  the  night  and 
rang  out  soft  and  clear  on  the  air.  The  Queen,  aroused 
from  her  despondency,  listened  as  though  'twere  from 
heaven.  L'sed  as  she  was  to  the  hnest  music  ever  written, 
no  music  had  so  stirred  her  soul  before. 

"From  whence  comes  that  sound  ^  Am  I  losing  my 
senses  at  last  from  these  terrible  days  of  waiting?  Will  1 
awake  only  to  hnd  1  have  been  dreaming?  No,  the  music 
goes  on,  on,  now  soft  and  low,  now  increasing  in  volume 
as  though  in  some  grand  Cathedral.  I  will  go  to  it. 
Weak?  no  1  am  strong  now."  And  rising  slowly,  she  ap- 
proaches the  opening  of  the  tent  and  stands  with  the  light 
of  the  campfire  full  in  her  face.  Edward  sees  that  face, 
and,  almost  forgetting  where  he  is  and  the  danger  of  a 
single  false  movement,  is  about  to  rise  and  fall  at  her  feet, 
but  a  look  from  the  Count  ijrings  him  to  his  senses,  and 
he  sings  on  w  ith  no  quaver  in  his  voice.  That  face  which 
had  first  appeared  to  him  in  a  tomb  of  the  dead  of  thou- 
sands of  years  apix'ars  again  in  the  tomb  of  the  living. 
She  stands  resplendent  in  her  beauty;  the  color  again 
mounts  to  her  cheek  and  the  light  of  hope  fills  her  eyes. 
Long  she  stands  there  as  though  transfixed  with  the 
sound,  then  slowly  returns  to  her  seat  in  the  tent.  Ama- 
billi sees  the  change  and  is  overjoyed.  No  danger  of 
death  now— inusic  has  brought  back  the  roses  to  her  cheek, 


J.iiLl 


li  i 


n 


! 

t 


li 

I 
l   ii 


224 


MY  FRIEND   BILL. 


and  she  will  live.     He  grasps  the  hands  of  the  singers  and 
pours  out  his  thanks  to  them. 

•*I  knew  when  1  first  heard  your  voices  in  the  inn  that 
you  could  save  her,  but  I  did  not  know  the  full  power  of 
your  voices."  Then  to  Edward:  "You  sing  to-night 
with  tenfold  the  sweetness  that  you  did  in  the  inn.  Your 
very  soul  seemed  to  go  out  from  you.  Ah,  the  life-giving 
virtue  of  the  human  voice !" 

The  hour  was  late.  The  two  minstrels  were  shown  to 
a  tent  somewhat  ofif  from  the  others  and  on  the  opposite 
side  from  whence  they  had  entered  the  camp. 

The  next  morning  the  maiden  walked  out  alone  and 
joined  the  group  at  breakfast.  Amabili  was  rejoiced  to 
see  with  what  relish  she  ate.  Ever  and  anon  she  would 
glance  at  the  minstrels.  As  she  looked  at  Edward  there 
would  come  to  her  eyes  a  strange  light  as  though  of  some- 
thing almost  remembered,  then  it  would  fade  away,  and  a 
sadness  would  come  over  her  face.  But  all  during  the  day 
she  could  never  see  him  without  the  recurrence  of  that 
look,  and  each  time  the  sadness  seemed  less  marked,  yet  it 
was  never  abse  t. 

Edward  was  so  afifable  in  his  manner  toward  all  the 
camp  that  he  was  soon  on  friendly  terms  with  them.  He 
would  frequently  speak  words  of  English,  but  never  found 
himself  understood.  No  one  knew  even  the  simplest  word 
of  his  native  tongue. 

Just  after  the  midday  meal  Barrone  came  almost  breath- 
less into  the  camp. 

"Danger !  Danger !"  he  cried  as  soon  as  he  could  speak. 
"Five  men  have  come  to  the  inn  looking  for  the  young 
Englishman.  They  have  asked  of  everybody  "had  they 
seen  a  young  stranger?"  but  no  one  had  seen  him.  They 
asked  of  the  priest,  but  he  knew  nothing.  They  are  heav- 
ily armed,  and  swear  they  will  find  him.     As  they  partook 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


225 


gers  and 

inn  that 
K>wer  of 
to-night 
i.  Your 
ie-giving 

shown  to 
opposite 

lone  and 
joiced  to 
le  would 
ird  there 
of  some- 
ay,  and  a 
g  the  day 
e  of  that 
:ed,  yet  it 

■d  all  the 
lem.  He 
ver  found 
>lest  word 

St  breath- 

Lild  speak, 
he  young 
'had  they 
m.  They 
are  heav- 
:y  partook 


of  tbc'ir  breakfast  they  ate  with  tiu'lr  guns  beside  thcin  on 
the  table,  while  one  of  tiieir  nutnix-r  stood  at  the  door. 
Our  people  are  beside  themselves  with  fear,  as  these  men 
intimate  that  more  of  their  number  are  ctxming.  Amabilli, 
what  is  to  be  done?"  Here  was  seen  the  leadership  of 
Amabilli.  "What  is  to  be  done?  What  need  be  done? 
You  fear  where  no  fear  should  be.  These  men  will  look 
about  them  aid  go  as  they  have  come.  They  will  see 
nothing,  they  will  find  nothing.  I  know  my  people,  and 
my  peoi)le  never  betra\-.  Go  back  again  and  come  otdy 
when  there  is  real  danger.  Xo — slay.  1  fear  more  from 
}ou  than  from  any  one  in  tiie  hamlet.  You  see  danger, 
and  your  manner  may  betray  your  fear.  T  will  not  risk 
your  return."  And  nothing  more  was  said,  and  by  no 
sign  could  be  seen  any  concern  on  Amabilli's  face. 

Edward  was  ever  watching  for  an  opportimity  to  speak 
with  ^liss  Alleyn,  but  the  old  hag  never  left  her  side  for  a 
moment.  If  she  left  the  tent  this  ugly  old  creature  was 
with  her.     She  might  go  and  come  at  will,  but  never  aloue 

Miss  Alleyn  saw  this  anxiety  on  Edward's  i)art,  and  by 
look  told  him  plainly  that  she  saw  it.  This  was  a  joy  to 
him.  H  their  tongues  were  bound,  no  force  could  bind 
their  eyes.  She  knew  not  why.  but  in  that  minstrel  she 
seemed  to  divine  a  means  of  escape.  Rut  how?  Could 
two  unarmed  minstrels  used  only  to  music  hope  to  with- 
stand ten  trained  bandits  used  only  to  arms?  Xo;  that 
were  a  hope  without  reason  of  fulfillment,  and  yet  it  was 
a  hope,  and  hope,  even  without  reason,  was  sweet  to  her. 

"Why,"  she  would  often  ask  herself,  'Vloes  the  one  seem 
so  much  nearer  to  me  than  the  other  ?  Both  are  handsome 
and  both  sing  equally  well,  and  yet  the  one  seems  as 
though  I  had  known  him  for  years !  Did  T  believe  in  a 
prior  existence  I  would  know  him  as  a  friend  in  that  other 
existence." 


•1 


I* 


ir 


|l 


I: 


Hi' 


. 

1 

• 

' 

1    ^ 

>    ' 

> 

\ 

226 


MV    FKILND    lULL. 


/\ik1  thus  the  ilays  went  by,  each  like  llic  other.  No 
ix)ssil)le  chance  presented  itself  of  even  the  sHglUest  ho\)C 
of  escaix?.  The  chill  days  were  succeeded  by  nights  of 
nuisic.  Their  songs,  though  sung  over  and  over  again, 
ever  sounded  sweet  and  new.  Miss  Alleyn,  wlu)  had  a 
nne  voice,  often  joined  in  and  sang  with  the  minstrels  to 
the  great  joy  of  Kdward. 

On  the  third  day  Fulco  came  to  the  camp,  and  said  that 
the  five  men  after  remaining  two  days  went  away  with- 
out learning  any  word  of  the  young  Englishman,  although 
they  had  made  great  effort .  They  had  asked  of  everylxxly, 
even  the  little  children,  but  all  were  silent. 

"Did  1  not  tell  you,"  asked  Amabilli,  "that  my  people 
never  betrayed .''  Ah,  I  know  my  people!  What  word  is 
there  from  Milan,  Fulco?" 

"Nothing  of  importance,  unless  it  be  that  Colletti  was 
seen  there.  1  thought,  IJarrone,  you  had  leit  him  at  Lecco 
guarding  your  two  young  merchants?" 

"What,"  said  Barrone  in  great  surprise,  "Colletti  in 
Milan!  Pity  the  young  men  who  must  die  in  that  hole! 
Well,  if  they  could  not  keep  him  in  gold  it  is  no  concern 
of  mine.  No  one  will  ever  know,  for  no  one  ever  goes  to 
that  wine  cellar.  My  wine  cellar  now  !"  Even  the  hard- 
ened bandits  could  not  but  feel  pity,  but  the  look  Edward 
gave  to  the  Count  was  not  one  of  pity. 

"Fulco,"  said  Amabili,  "go  back  to  the  hamlet  and  wait 
for  further  news.  Send  a  messenger  to  Milan  with  this 
message:  'Accept  offer  of  Alkyn.  Arrange  for  ex- 
change at  our  old  house  (in  the  large  room,  first  floor)  at 
Lecco,  five  days  from  to-day  at  exactly  3  o'clock  afternoon. 
Instant  death  to  maiden  if  a  single  sign  of  duplicity  is  sus- 
pected.'    Go." 

"We  will  release  the  two  young  merchants  from  the 
wine  cellar,  and  not  wait  the  full  month  I  promised  them !" 


L-r.  Xo 
jst  hope 
iglits  of 
r  again, 

L>  had  a 
strcls  to 

aid  that 
ly  witii- 
illhougli 
.Tvlxxlv, 

V  people 
word  is 

letti  was 
at  Lecco 

)lletti  in 
lat  hole! 
concern 
'  goes  to 
he  hard- 
Edward 

and  wait 
vith  this 
for  ex- 
floor)  at 
"ternoon. 
:v  is  sus- 


MV   FKIEND   BILL. 


22J 


And  Harronc  laughed  heartily  at  the  ilunight. 

VVhcP  the  niinsfrels  heard  t'his  thev  knew  that  what  they 
did  must  be  done  without  delav.  Thev  feared  that  hv 
some  mischance  there  might  W  duplicity  suspected  wlu-e 
none  was  meant  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Allevn.  and  his  daugh- 
ter  slain  on  the  very  moment  of  her  release. 

They  came  and  went  in  and  aI>out  the  camp  as  they 
pleased.  They  liad  made  long  excursions  in  all  directions 
ihey  had  found  the  path  that  C'ollctti  had  told  them  about 
and  had  followed  it  for  tniles,  carefullv  studying  all  its 
turns.  Some  distance  back  of  their  tent  and  at  the  very 
side  of  this  path  stood  one  lone  piue  tree  of  immense  size 
Jt  stood  out  clear  in  the  horizon  and  might  he  seen  plainly 
from  the  camp  even  at  night.  Miss  Allevn  had  often  gone 
to  it  with  the  old  woman,  for  since  her  strength  had  re- 
turned with  her  spirits  she  walked  much  about  the  camp 


Toni  tne 
dthem!" 


I-' 


f  'i|:l'  1 


I*      P 


m 


I 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

/;  zvas  Poster's  immortal  gj:m,  "The  Old  Folks  at  Home." 
This  song  is  typically  American,  and  yet  all  the  zvorld 
can  claim  it.'  It  is  the  thought  and  not  the  river. 
Every  land  beneath  the  sun  has  its  Suanee  River.  It 
may  be  but  the  babbling  brook  that  purls  its  imy 
along  doivn  the  mountain  side  past  some  lone  cottage, 
or  it  may  be  the  mighty  stream  bearing  on  its  bosom 
the  commerce  of  the  world  past  the  gates  of  the  palace. 
It  is  all  the  same,  the  brook  or  the  river,  the  cottage 
or  the  palace,  if  there's  n'here  the  old  folks  stay. 

That  evening  the  minstrels  sang  longer  than  usual. 
And  what  they  had  never  done  before,  they  sang  songs  in 
English.  The  instant  they  began  the  first  one  Miss  Alleyn 
seemed  scarcely  able  to  contain  her  joy.  At  first  she 
thought  they  were  repeating  words  with  no  knowledge  of 
those  words,  but  when  Edward  looked  the  full  meaning 
of  certain  parts  of  the  song,  then  she  knew  in  her  heart 
that  he  was  speaking  to  her.  One  of  those  songs,  whose 
melody  is  known  throughout  the  whole  world,  touched  her 
deeply.  Tears  welled  up  in  her  eyes  and  ran  down  her 
cheeks  as  he  sang: 

"An  exile  from  home  splendor  dazzles  in  vain."  She 
was  an  ''exile  from  home."  which  she  feared  she  wovM 
never  sec  again,  but  in  the  joy  of  hearing  those  sweet 
words  sung  by  the  tongue  of  her  own  land  by  one  whose 
accent  she  knew  could  not  be  other  than  that  of  her  home, 

32S 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


229 


lonie." 
'  world 
-  river, 
'er.  It 
ts  way 
•ottagc, 
bosom 
palace, 
cottage 

y- 

usual, 
ongs  in 

Alleyn 
rst  she 
edge  of 
leaning 
;r  heart 
,  whose 
hed  her 
►wn  her 

."  She 
t  would 
e  sweet 
e  whose 
T  home, 

!28 


her  joy  was  almost  too  great.  None  of  the  bandits  seemed 
to  wonder  at  the  strange  words,  and  many  of  them  even 
hummed  the  tune  or  sang  their  own  words  to  it.  By  this 
time  Edward  knew  it  was  safe  to  venture  on  the  one  great 
theme  of  the  night.  He  would  improvise  in  song  his  plan 
for  her  escape.  He  tuned  anew  his  guitar,  and,  lightly 
touching  the  chords,  began  singing  the  first  verse  of 
Juanita.     Instead  of  its  chorus  he  sang: 

Nita,  Juanita,  listen  to  the  words  I'll  sing; 
Nita,  Juanita,  joy  to  thee  they'll  bring. 
Instead  of  the  second  verse,  he  sang  the  plan  of  her  esca|)e. 
Each  line  she  caught  as  though  her  life  depended  upon  her 
not  missing  a  word. 

When  in  the  morning,  just  before  the  break  of  day 

Come  to  the  pine  tree  by  the  lone  pathway, 

There  we'll  meet  you,  yes  we'll  meet  you, 

And  we'll  guide  you  to  your  home, 

Fear  no  evil  will  betide  you, 

We'll  be  waiting,  waiting,  come. 
He  fain  would  have  sung  the  chorus  of  the  second  verse, 
but  he  felt  he  had  no  right.     Some  time  he  might  sing  it, 
but  not  now.     In  its  stead  he  sang : 

Nita,  Juanita.  gladly  from  these  friends  you'll  part. 

Nita,  Juanita.  do  not  leave  your  heart. 
At  this  bit  of  sarcasm  she  could  but  smile.  That  smile 
told  Edward  how  quick  she  was  to  catch  his  meaning,  and 
felt  that  the  plan  would  at  least  be  attempted  by  her. 
They  sang  one  more  song  before  separating  for  the  night. 
It  was  Foster's  inunortal  gem.  "The  Old  Folks  at  Home." 
This  ballad  is  typically  American,  and  yet  all  the  world 
can  claim  it.  It  is  the  thought  and  not  the  river.  Every 
land  beneath  the  sun  has  it  Suanee  River.  It  may  be  but 
the  babbling  brook  that  purls  its  way  along  down  the 
mountain  side  past  some  lone  cottage,  or  it  may  be  the 


r  n 


I    ; 


III 


I      1     '" 


!l^ 


'( 


■:  ■'■ 


230 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


mighty  stream  bearing  on  its  bosom  the  commerce  of  the 
world,  past  the  gates  of  the  palace.  It  is  all  the  same,  the 
brook  or  the  river,  the  cottage  or  the  palace,  if  "There's 
where  the  old  folks  stay."  As  they  sang  Miss  Alleyn 
joined  in,  but  she,  too,  could  improvise,  for  instead  of  sing- 
ing Foster's  words  she  sang  her  own,  in  which  she  told 
how  that  she  had  caught  the  full  meaning  of  Edward's 
"Juanita,"  and  promised  to  be  at  the  tree  at  the  appointed 
hour. 

Long  after  the  whole  camp  v/as  still,  Fulco  came  run- 
ning with  the  wild  news  that  a  messenger  had  just  come 
to  the  hamlet  with  the  report  that  it  was  found  that  the 
wine  cellar  had  been  battered  in  and  that  the  two  prisoners 
had  escaped.  Every  bandit  was  up,  and  the  camp  was  in- 
stantly like  a  hive  of  bees  overturned.  What  was  to  be 
done?  Where  were  the  two  men?  When  did  they 
escape  ? 

"I  know  nothing  further  than  that  I  have  told  yor 
Yes,  here  is  something  else,  two  suits  of  clothes  were 
found  in  a  forest  near  Lecco  by  a  peasant.    They  were 
small  merchants'  clothes." 

"The  very  same,"  said  Barrone.  "And  when  were  they 
found?     Tell  me — tell  me." 

"The  messenger  who  brought  the  word,"  said  Fulco, 
"could  not  say  further  than  that  it  must  have  been  six  days 
ago." 

The  least  excited  of  all  was  Amabilli,  who  quietly  asked, 
"Has  anyone  been  at  the  hamlet  but  the  five  arnied  men  ?" 

"No,"  replied  Fulco,  "excepting  the  two  minstrels,  but 
it  could  not  have  been  they,"  remembering  his  former  mis- 
take in  judging  them  too  hastily. 

Said  Amabilli :  "Judge  not  too  hastily,  these  men  seem 
to  me  no  common  minstrels.     I  have  thought  so  all  along." 

"Thev  are  the  merchants,"  said  Barrone.     "I  am  now 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


231 


certain  of  it.  Their  form  and  bearing  are  the  same  to  a 
close  point.  I  would  not  have  doubted  had  I  not  been  so 
sure  they  v  -re  in  the  wine  cellar.  Let's  to  them  at  once ;" 
and  he  started  toward  their  tent  followed  by  the  now  thor- 
oughly excited  bandits, 

'Hold.  Not  too  hastily,"'  six)ke  the  bearded  leader, 
"we  will  take  the  day  for  it.  We  can  the  better  question 
them  and  detect  every  movement  of  tlie  face.  We  will 
question  each  apart  from  the  other,  and  if  their  stories  do 
not  compare  we  will  know  them  as  the  men.  They  are 
safe,  as  they  know  nothing  of  the  cause  of  the  commotion. 
Speak  no  word  of  what  you  think.  Now  to  sleep  all  and 
be  up  at  break  of  day,  as  to-morrow  will  be  a  most  momen- 
tous one  for  us."  He  spoke  truly.  The  most  momentous 
of  his  life. 


CHAPTER  XUII. 


i 


i'l 


I 


Bdward's  quick  eye  guided  his  blade  to  a  vital  spot  and 
the  giant  lay  dead  at  his  feet. 

"Edward!  wake,  Edward."  softly  spoke  the  Count,  "the 
day  comes  on  very  soon !  1  can  see  the  grey  streaks  in  the 
sky."  They  were  now  both  full  awake,  and  stealthily  they 
move  toward  the  great  tree.  They  stand  and  wait.  The 
day  grows  hgliter,  and  yet  Miss  Alleyn  has  not  come. 
"Oh,  why,  why  is  she  so  long?  The  camp  will  soon  be 
stirring,  and  yet  I  see  no  sign  of  her."  They  hear  a  steal- 
mg  step  behind  them  down  the  path.  It  is  a  dark  figure 
moving  slowly  toward  them. 

"It  is  a  sentry  coming— be  ready.  Count.  Here,  step 
behind  the  tree,  lest  he  see  you.  No  time  to  think  of  spar- 
ing life  now.  It  is  his  life  or  ours,  for  if  we  are  found 
here  at  this  hour  we  are  lost.  Xow,  ready.  I  hear  his 
step  just  beyond  t'^e  tree— hold.  Why,  :\iiss  Alleyn,  we 
had  nearly  slain  you.  One  step  more  and  you  had  been 
struck  down  for  a  sentry."  They  turn  to  go  down  the 
path,  when  they  hear  a  most  fiendish  scream  coming  from 
the  great  tent.  The  hag  has  missed  her  fair  prisoner. 
•She  rushes  out  wildly  screaming.  The  camp  is  in  an  up- 
roar. Men  and  women  running  in  every  direction.  They 
run  to  the  tent  of  the  minstrels.  It  is  empty.  The  shrill 
whistle  of  their  leader  rings  out  on  the  morning  air.  In- 
stantly every  man  gathers  around  Amabilli  for  quick 
orders. 

232 


MY   FRIEND    BILL. 


233 


"Fiilco,  take  you  five  men  and  spread  down  the  east  path 
toward  the  hamlet,  arouse  our  people  everywhere  alotig 
the  way,  spare  no  one  but  the  maiden,  and  slay  her,  too, 
if  tliere  be  chance  of  lier  escape,  i'.aritzo,  you  g-o  with  tw'o 
men  to  the  south  and  leave  no  nook  unexplored  !  Har- 
rone,  come  with  me  to  the  west  path  by  the  j^^reat  pine.  I 
feel  certain  they  have  gone  by  that  way,  as  the  minstrels' 
tent  is  on  that  side  and  no  sentry  to  the  west.  Throw  away 
your  scabbard,  carry  naught  but  your  naked  sword. 
Shovv  no  quarters.  Oh,  that  I  had  taken  your  advice  last 
night,  and  not  waited  for  the  morning — but  they  cannot 
escape  us.  The  maiden  is  too  weak  to  hold  out  long.  It 
will  soon  be  full  light,  and  at  the  next  turn  we  may  see  a 
long  distance  down  the  mountain.  T  would  the  men  were 
armed,  as  I  have  never  yet  slain  an  unamied  man.  I 
even  showed  the  young  Englishman  fair  play,  as  he  car- 
ried a  beautiful  blade.  I  will  show  it  you  on  our  return. 
Let  us  hasten.  We  are  almost  at  the  turn  now.  Here 
we  are.  Can  you  see  them  ?  Look,  too,  for  signs  of  foot 
prints.  There,  see  in  the  sand.  Ah,  I  was  not  wrong. 
They  thought  to  come  this  path,  that  w^e  would  look  for 
them  in  the  other  directions.  Their  steps  are  long.  They 
are  still  running,  and  yet  I  thought  the  maiden  too  weak 
for  flight.  Watch  close  that  they  do  not  elude  us,  and  we 
pass  them.  The  steps  are  yet  plain,  but  of  less  length. 
The  maiden  must  soon  tire.  There,  look,  Barrone !  Ha, 
ha,  T  knew  they  must  come  into  view  shortly.  Now  go 
less  fast  as  T  am  not  used  to  so  long  a  run.  Hold !  Call 
to  them,  Barrone.     My  voice  is  not  strong." 

"Stop!"  cries  Barrone,  but  the  minstrels,  one  on  either 
side  of  the  almost  fainting  maiden,  help  her  along. 

"Oh,  T  cannot  go  further,"  she  begs  the  minstrels  to 
leave  her.  "Leave  me  here  and  save  yourselves.  Do  not, 
I  pray  you,  lose  your  lives.    You  do  not  know  those  men. 


- 


I  I 


Wm 


234 


MY  FRIEND   BILL. 


■1: 


u 


!!'! 


I 


'if 


i''< 


I 


They  have  no  mercy.     They  know  no  mercy.     You  are 
'inarmed.     Without  me  you  may  escape  them,  as  you  are 

younger— I— can "     She  cannot  finish  the  sentence ; 

she  has  fainted. 

"Now,  Edward,  be  ready.  You  are  the  better  swords- 
man. You  take  AmabiH,  I  will  fight  Barrone.  Good- 
by,  Edward.  Wc  have  done  what  we  could.  I  have  no 
regret." 

By  this  time  the  two  bandits  were  almost  up  to  them. 

"Ha,  ha,  my  fine  minstrels.  Did  you  think  to  play  on 
us  as  upon  a  guitar?  Not  so.  We  make  not  so  sweet 
music,  our  chords  are  too  harsh !" 

"Y'ou  grew  tired  of  my  wine  cellar  full  soon,  my  young 
merchants,"  tauntingly  called  out  Barrone.  "Methinks 
this  time  I  will  lock  the  door  so  tight  you  will  not  get  out 
in  a  day !" 

Not  until  tlie  two  bandits  were  almost  upon  them  did 
^hey  prepare  to  draw  their  swords. 

As   each   held   his  guitar,  Amabilli   sneeringly  asked: 
"And  are  you  going  to  play  for  us,  my  sweet  minstrels? 
Ha.  ha,  have  you  not  already  played  fuli  much  ?     Get  each 
a  stick  in  yonder  wood  and  play  'gainst  our  pretty  blades. 
Barrone  h'«-'>  tells  me  you  handle  well  the  stick!" 
^^  Edwarc.  and  the  Count  now  stood  each  before  his  man. 
"Will  you  sing  in  English,  as  you  did  last  night  for  the 
fair  maiden,  or  will  you  give  us  soft  Italian  music?     Sing 
again  'Juanita.'    'Twas  a  beauteous  song,  and  well  'twas 
sung."     And  Amabilli  bantered   on   that   he  might  have 
time  to  gain  his  breath,  of  which  the  long  run  had  so  well 
nigh  deprived  him.     He  is  breathing  now  with  more  ease, 
but  yet  feeling  they  had  the  young  men  at  their  mercy,' 
continued  to  tease  them  as  they  would  have  teased  at  rats' 
m  a  cage  before  putting  an  end  to  them, 

"And  now,  my  lads,  sing  us  the  song  we  all  know,  thai 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


235 


young 


we  may  join  you,  'Home,  Sweet  Home.'  Sing  it  us  once 
more  before  we  send  you  liome  as  I  did  the  young  Eng- 
lishman in  whom  Fulco  tells  me  you  took  much  interest  at 
the  inn.' 

"Have  an  end  to  your  jibes,"  cried  the  Count,  who  was 
growing  impatient  and  angered  at  the  insults  heaped  u]x:>n 
them.  Barrone  made  a  pass  at  the  Count,  who  on  the 
instant  jumped  backward,  drawing,  as  he  did,  his  sword 
and  throwing  behind  him  the  guitar.  The  movement  was 
so  quick  that  it  seemed  to  Barrone  that  it  had  been  done 
by  magic.  Barrone  began  now  to  test  the  skill  of  the 
Count  by  feints,  thrusts  and  cuts,  but  it  was  soon  apparent 
to  him  that  Edward  was  not  the  only  one  who  knew  how 
to  protect  himself.  The  Count  was  in  a  moment  on  the 
aggressive.  He  was  younger  and  far  quicker,  lait  he  had 
not  the  great  strength  of  his  vicious  antagonist,  who  be- 
came now  like  a  wild  beast,  for  the  Count  had  given  him 
a  painful  cut  on  his  sword  hand.  He  forgot  all  skill  and 
.:wung  wildly,  becoming  the  most  difficult  of  adversaries, 
for  the  Count  could  not  tell  by  any  rule  what  he  would  do 
next.  He  swept  a  cut  that  must  have  severed  the  Count's 
head,  had  he  not  dropped  upon  his  knees  with  the  quickness 
of  a  trained  athlete.  The  blow  swung  Barrone  almost  off 
his  feet,  so  great  was  the  force  he  had  expended.  It  was 
his  last,  for  with  a  lightning  thrust  the  Count  had  struck 
upward  and  passed  his  keen  blade  almost  through  the  ban- 
dit's body,  who  fell  forward  and  could  not  rise. 

All  this  while  there  was  a  more  terrific  fight  in  progress 
between  two  more  skillful  swordsmen.  There  were  no 
wild,  vicious  thrusts,  but  every  movement  was  by  a  rule. 
Edward  had  never  before  met  a  man  of  so  powerful  build 
or  one  who  was  so  perfect  in  the  handling  of  a  sword.  It 
was  thrust,  parry,  cut,  parry  on  both  sides  for  a  long  while. 
Neither  seemed  to  have  any  advantage  in  skill,  but  Ama- 


( 
I 

I- 


vif 


'i 


ill 


it 


236 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


billi,  taller  and  broader,  would  seem  to  bear  his  adversary 
down  by  very  force.  Edward,  though  of  less  weight  and 
height,  had  muscles  so  hard  and  supple  that  they  seemed 
Tke  bands  of  tempered  steel,  so  that  his  strength  was  fully 
equal  to  that  of  the  bandit.  Long  after  the  Count  had 
vanquished  his  antagonist  did  these  two  men  stand  facing 
each  other  like  two  well  matched  lions.  Neither  could 
gain  a  point,  though  both  fought  so  hard  for  one.  There 
was  no  relaxing  for  a  single  moment.  Amabili's  sword 
is  snapped  and  he  stands  at  Edward's  mercy !  The  giant 
panting  for  breath  expects  no  mercy,  as  he  himself  would 
have  given  none.  Edward  fain  would  have  given  him  life, 
but  the  moment  the  bandit  saw  that  his  life  would  be 
spared,  he  quickly  ran  to  where  Barrone  lay  and  grasjM^d 
his  sword  ^nd  again  stood  ready  to  continue  to  the  end. 
The  end  was  not  far  of¥.  These  skilled  fencers  were  of 
etjual  strength  and  of  equal  skill,  but  not  of  equal  endur- 
ance. The  older  man  begins  to  show  the  effect  of  all  his 
years  of  wild,  vicious  life.  Edward,  who,  on  the  other 
hand,  had  been  when  at  school  remarkable  for  his  endur- 
ance, and  had  led  a  careful  life,  was  yet  fresh  when  Ama- 
billi's  stren.gth  was  waning.  The  moment  his  strength 
began  to  waver  was  his  last.  This  man  whose  victims 
v/ere  Vv^ithout  number  had  finally  met  one  he  could  not  van- 
quish, and  yet  he  fought  on  to  the  end.  One  wrong  move 
and  Edward's  quick  eye  guided  his  blade  to  a  vital  spot, 
n.ad  the  giant  lay  dead  at  his  feet. 

Miss  Alleyn,  who  had  come  out  of  her  fainting  spell  just 
as  the  Count  had  beaten  down  Barrone,  sat  and  looked  on 
at  what  seemed  certain  death  for  Edward.  The  Count 
would  have  led  her  away,  but  she  would  not  go.  "No,  he 
is  fighting  for  my  life,  and  I  will  stay  to  the  end;  a 
braver  man  I  have  never  looked  upon.  Amabilli  has 
never  met  a  man  his  equal,  the  women  at  the  camp  were 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


^h7 


ever  telling  of  his  prowess.  There,  his  sword  is  snapped 
Why  does  not  the  minstrel  take  advantage  of  it  as  he 
would  a  venomous  viper?  He  is  not  iighting  with  a 
man.  Amabilli  does  not  tight  as  a  man  would  fight.  He 
and  Barrone  would  have  slain  you  two  unanned  as  they 
thought  you  to  be.— There— and  Amabilli  has  met  at  last 
his  just  fate.  I  am  a  woman  and  hate  the  sight  of  blood, 
but  'twas  our  lives  or  theirs,  and  i  cannot  but  be  happy  at 
the  turn."  The  look  she  gave  to  Edward  was  one  of 
wonderment,  admiration  and  gratitude. 

"How  can  1  thank  you,  my  friends?  You  can  never 
ktiow  the  full  depth  of  my  gratitude." 

"No  time  now  for  thanks,  my  dear  lady,"  said  l^^dwanl, 
"as  we  do  not  know  how  soon  the  rest  of  the  bandits  may 
be  upon  us,  and  for  the  moment  I  have  had  all  the  fighting 
1  want.  We  must  away  as  fast  as  possible  from  these 
l)arts.  How^  fortunate  we  were  thrown  into  the  cellar, 
Count,  else  we  had  not  learned  from  Colletti  this  'other 

way  out.'  " 

"What  do  you  mean,"  asked  Miss  Alleyn,  "about  the 
wine  cellar,  and  who  is  Count?" 

"In  due  time,"  said  Edward,  "we  will  have  much  to  tell 
you,  but  not  now." 

They  found  that  their  instruments  were  uninjured, 
though  quite  unstrung  after  the  hard  fought  battles.  Both 
bandits  were  quite  dead.  They  would  leave  them,  as  they 
knew  their  friends  would  find  them,  and  the  little  i>riest 
would  reavl  over  them,  and  with  possibly  more  feeling  than 
he  had  over  the  young  Englishman. 

As  Edward  had  said,  they  were  far  from  being  out  of 
danger,  as  already  Barritzo  and  his  two  men  finding  noth- 
ing to  the  south  had  returned  to  camp,  and  were  starting 
to  follow  in  the  direction  the  two  leaders  had  gone, 
even  yet  while  these  leaders  v/ere  fighting  their  last  battle. 


i  J. 


\. 


238 


MY  FRIEND   BILL. 


.;i  <>■■ 


The  two  minstrels  and  the  maiden  had  scarce  g"otten  out  of 
sigiht  when  the  three  bandits  came  to  the  turn.  The\'  see 
them  and  are  now  running-  full  toward  them. 


I' I' 


i 
I    1 


if 

i! : 


i 

\ 

i 

'■' 

1 

i 

19 

^ 

k 

;n  out  of 
riicy  see 


It 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

No,  good  lady,  these  bandits  arc  most  honorable  men, 
most  honorable  men,  my  good  lady.  They  may  be 
rough  and  nild  in  their  manners,  rough  and  zvild,  but 
they  are  the  very  soul  of  honor,  the  very  soul  of 
honor! 

Bill  had  seen  the  paper  containing  the  account  of  the 
assassination  of  the  young  American  (?)  and  had  hurried 
with  it  to  Mr.  DeHertbern,  who  read  it  and  turned  pale. 
Being  a  man  of  quick  action,  he  had  Bill  ring  for  a  Cable 
messenger,  and  hurriedly  wrote  out  a  message  to  the  Con- 
sul at  I\Iilan.  "Spare  no  money.  Hire  men,  a  regiment  if 
needs  be,  and  find  n^y  son  Edward.  Draw  on  me  for 
funds.     Waste  not  a  minute  !" 

The  American  press  is  quick  to  gather  the  full  details  of 
a  "story,"  and  before  night  ali  the  papers  in  the  city  had 
columns  \\  ritten,  giving  not  only  all  the  facts  with  Ed- 
ward DeHertbern's  named  as  the  young  American,  but 
much  more  added  to  make  the  account  the  more  sensa- 
tional. Some  of  them  went  so  far  as  to  write  up  flowing 
obituaries.  Edward  used  often  to  say  afterward  that  a 
man  never  knows  how  truly  great  he  is  until  he  has  been 
temporarily  assassinated  and  has  read  his  own  obituary 
notices. 

There  was  great  sorrow  in  Mr.  DeHertbern's  family,  as 
Edward  was  a  niost  loved  son  and  bruther.  Not  knowing 
what  could  have  taken  him  into  the  remote  mountain  pass. 

839 


J. 


V'l 


\ 


>\ 


i 

3 


240 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


the  mystery  was  iiulced  very  great.  All  day  long  friends 
called,  and  notes  and  letters  puured  in,  full  of  genuine 
expressions  of  sorrow. 

While  this  was  enacting  in  New  York',  Mr.  Alleyn  was 
in  long  conference  with  two  emissaries  of  Amabili,  who 
though  claiming  to  have  no  part  with  him,  yet  negotiated 
most  fully  for  him,  with  complete  knowledge  of  the  min- 
utest circumstance. 

"Your  daughter,"  said  the  speaker  of  the  two,  "is  grow- 
ing very  weak  from  grief.  The  choicest  dainties  are  pre- 
pared for  her,  but  she  will  not  partake  of  them.  The  gen- 
tlest care  is  shown  her,  yet  each  day  she  grows  more  pale." 

"Oh.  why,"  asked  Mr.  Allevn,  "will  your  leader  neither 
accept  my  offer  nor  name  one  himself?  I  will  wait  yet  a 
little  longer  for  the  young  American  before  I  lose  all  hope. 
He  has  now  been  gone  many  days." 

"Do  you  mean  the  young  man  who  was  slain  a  few  days 
ago  in  the  mountain  pass  where  your  daughter  was  taken 
from  you?" 

"What  ?  Do  you  tell  me  he  has  been  slain  ?  What  was 
he  like?"  And  the  description  was  so  like  Edward  that 
Mr.  Alicyn  could  but  exclaim,  "It  is  he.  Oh,  why  should 
he  have  risked  his  life?  Far  rather  had  I  paid  the  last 
farthing  of  my  fortune  than  that  for  my  sake  he  had  done 
this,  and  to  no  purpose!     I  will  wait  no  longer." 

Now  these  men  had  come  with  instructions  to  accept 
Mr.  Alleyn's  last  ofTer,  but  thinking  to  add  to  it  a  few 
pounds  more  for  themselves,  had  made  the  situation  much 
w^orse  than  it  was.  They  did  not  tell  the  anxious  father 
that  since  the  coming  of  two  minstrels  to  the  bandit  camp 
that  their  daughter  had  gained  new  life  and  was  quite  her 
own  self  again.     This  they  kept  from  him,  but  said : 

"The  terrible  (he  was  always  terrible)  leader  is  now 
readv  to  make  settlement,  but  he  will  accept  no  such  paltr>' 


<;  frieiuls 
genuine 

eyn  was 
)ili,  who 
'gotiated 
llic  min- 
is grovv- 
arc  pre- 
riic  gen- 
re pale." 
r  neitlier 
ail  yet  a 
all  hope. 

few  clays 
as  taken 

/hat  was 
'ard  that 
y  should 
the  last 
lad  done 

0  accept 
it  a  few 
on  much 
is  father 
dit  camp 
quite  her 
lid : 

r  is  now 
ch  paltry 


MY    FRIEND   BILL. 


241 


sum  as  you  have  uft'ered."  "raitry,"  and  had  not  Uar- 
rone  s[X)ken  of  it  as  the  "ransom  for  a  king?"  and  jjtill 
it  had  been  added  to  one  thousand  pounds  and  yet  was 
paltry! 

"1  can  go  only  so  far,"  sadly  s|X)ke  the  father,  "antl  that 
is  to  add  i5,ooo  to  what  I  have  already  oliered."  The 
surprise  to  the  men  was  so  great  they  were  unable  to  sjx'ak 
for  some  moments. 

"If  that  is  ^he  limit  of  your  offer  we  will  take  it  ui)on 
ourselves  to  accept,  but  much  fear  it  may  I'splease  the 
amiable  (he  is  now  the  amiable)  leader  Tvs  \>  Inch  we 
may  ::>,y  can  but  rejoice  your  heart.  The  exchange  is 
to')e  made  to-morrow  afternoon  at  cxactlv  ^  o'ckKk.  lUit 
mL'"k  vou  1  lis,  'if  there  is  the  least  sign  of  duplicity' — so 
the  xrjagc  reads — *susi)ected,  instant  death  W:  the 
maiden.'  V/e  m:\\  not  tell  you  where  it  will  be  made, 
but  we  will  call  for  you  in  the  forenoon."  Mr.  Alleyn 
could  not  for  some  minutes  fully  realize  what  he  had 
heard  the  men  say.  Could  they  mean  that  he  was  going 
to  clasp  again  his  darling  child  to  his  breast?  No,  that 
were  a  hope  too  great.  He  asked  them  again,  that  he 
might  be  certain  he  had  not  mistaken  their  words,  but 
he  had  truly  heard  aright. 

"May  I  call  to  her  mother  and  tell  her  the  great  joy? 
Wife,  wife,  come  and  hear  that  we  are  again  to  sec  our 
lost  child.  To-morrow — to-morrow  we  are  to  meet  her," 
And  they  clasped  each  (►ther  in  fond  embrace,  and  wept 
for  very  joy. 

"Oh,  Charles.  I  fear  something  may  happen  to  prc>vent 
those  awful  men  fulfilling  their  promise." 

"No,  good  lady,"  spoke  the  solicitor.  "These  bandits 
are  most  honorable  men — most  honorable  men,  my  good 
lady.  They  may  l)e  rough  and  wild  in  their  manners — 
rough  and  wild — but  they  are  the  very  soul  of  honor — the 


u 

i  " 


i    ml 


1 1 


'  ill 


!    ,' 


!. 


I    I 
1      1     i 


1         ■  '• 


*     it 


'!i  I 


I        1! 


i|' 


■1  ^: 

;       i 

■     i 

4  , 
'■     \ 

11  ii 

;    r 

1    \ 

if 

1 

242 


MY  FRIEND  BILL. 


very  soul  of  honor."  And  the  Httle  man  rubbed  his 
hands,  thinking  of  the  extra  share  his  shrewd  bargaining 
would  bring  him,  as  he  knew  "their  very  soul  of  honor" 
could  not  wring  for  them  a  centime  more  than  the  extra 
thousand  ix>unds  which  the  leader  had  authorized  him  to 
accept.  "Four  thousand  pounds,"  and  as  he  had  done  all 
the  bargaining,  he  would  allow  five  hundred  pounds  01  it 
to  the  other  solicitor,  "and  pay  him  well — pay  him  well — 
and  he  nothing  to  do  but  listen  to  me  talk." 

"As  to  the  possibility  of  any  duplicity,"  said  Mr.  Alleyn, 
"I  would  not  risk  my  daughter's  life  to  punish  your  band, 
even  did  I  know  I  might  capture  every  one  of  them.  No, 
there  will  be  no  duplicity.  Ana  as  there  will  be  a  number 
of  your  men  present,  and  no  possible  danger  to  them,  I 
beg  that  you  will  allow  me  to  bring  with  myself  and  wife 
two  friends.  You  may  examine  all  of  us  carefully  before 
we  start,  to  see  that  no  arms  are  secreted." 

"Oh,  no  objections — no  objections  in  the  world.  I  will 
be  there  and  see  that  our  men  are  fully  protected !  No 
objections  to  your  two  friends,  as  I  know  it  will  appear 
more  comfortable  to  feel  that  you  are  not  alone."  And 
the  little  man  flitted  a1>out  the  room  as  he  conducted  the 
arrangements,  ever  and  anon  stopping  to  rub  his  hands 
and  to  brush  back  from  his  forehead  a  stray  spear  of 
gray  hair,  which,  owang  to  his  energetic  movements, 
would  continually  drop  down  across  his  face.  "Now  I 
am  off — oflf — till  the  morrow.  Remember,  any  duplicity, 
'certain  oeath  to  the  maiden.'  A  word,  a  look,  an  act  may 
mean  death  to  the  maiden ;  beware  of  duplicity.  Our 
men  are  the  soul  of  honor  and  can  brook  nothing  but  most 
honorable  treatment  in  return.  Adieu — yes,  the  soul  of 
honor !" 

Mr.  Allcyn  sent  a  mcsscngcf  to  Professor  Blake,  and 
the  American  consul,  asking  them  to  hasten  at  once  to 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


243 


his  hotel  on  very  urgent  business.  They  came  together 
and  were  surprised  to  find  the  ahnost  smiling  looks  of 
Air.  and  Mrs.  Alleyn. 

"And  what  good  news  can  you  have  iieard?"  asked  the 
consul.  "Your  faces  tell  us  that  wc  have  not  been  called 
to  hear  of  sadness." 

"Oh,  that  what  has  been  told  us  may  be  true !  We  are 
promised  our  daughter  to-morrow — to-morrow  !  And  we 
want  you  and  the  professor  here  to  go  with  us." 

"Is  there  any  danger?"  asked  the  professor.  The  consul 
smiled  and  promised  that  between  riiem  they  would  try 
to  see  that  no  harm  would  befall  him. 

"I,  too,  have  a  matter  to  speak  of.  You  are  aware,  Mr. 
Alle}n,  that  the  young  American  who  was  slain  in  the 
mountain  pass  was  most  certainly  Mr.  Edward  Dellert- 
bern,  of  New  Y^ork  city.  The  description  is  so  exact  that 
there  is  scarce  a  possibility  of  mistake.  1  have  this  day 
received  a  message  from  Mr.  DeHertbern's  father,  who  is 
a  personal  friend  of  mine,  to  the  effect  that  I  spare  neither 
men  nor  money  to  find  his  son,  either  dead  or  living. 
Knowing  that  this  would  be  his  wish,  I  had  sent  out  ten 
of  the  most  trusted  men  I  could  find,  on  that  mission,  the 
very  hour  I  was  convinced  that  the  unfortunate  young 
man  was  Edward,  and  they  were  well  on  their  way  long 
before  the  message  came.  The  professor  and  I  will  be 
here  at  the  time  vou  name  in  the  morniuir." 

The  rest  of  that  day  Mr.  Alleyn  occupied  himself  in 
collecting  together  the  gold,  in  which  the  ])an(lits  had  de- 
manded the  ransom  shoukl,be  paid.  He  had  drawn  from 
London .  and  from  Paris,  and  from  every  available  source, 
as  the  amount  agreed  upon  was  a  very  great  one.  By 
night  everything  was  in  readiness. 

At  9  o'clock  the  next  morning  the  consul  and  Professor 
Blake  were  promptly  on  time,  but  the  two  solicitors  were 


i  1^ 

i  1  ■*■■ 

;     I 


1     i 


244 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


U 


late.  They  had  held  another  meeting  already  that  morn- 
ing, and  a  most  serious  one  it  was.  They  were  aroused 
from  sleep  at  a  very  early  hour  by  Fulco  i>nd  Barritzo, 
who,  having  called  for  them  at  their  twc.  homes,  were 
told  they  must  be  at  their  office,  where  they  at  times  slept. 
The  little  solicitor,  at  sight  of  the  two  worn-out  bandits, 
could  scarcely  speak,  so  great  was  his  surprise.  With- 
out waiting  a  moment,  Barritzo  began : 

"We  are  undone.     Amabilli  is  dead.     Barrone  is  dead, 
and  I  fear  the  maiden,  too,  is  dead."     He  hurriedly  told 
of  the  escape  of  their  prisoner  with  the  minstrels,  and 
how  Amabilli  had  planned  for  her  recapture.     "When," 
he  continued,  "I  could  find  no  trace  of  them  to  the  south 
of  the  camp,  the  two  men  and  I  returned  and  followed  in 
the  direction  we  supposed  they  had  gone.     What  was  our 
horror  to  find  our  giant  leader  and  Barrone  dead  in  the 
west  path,  slain  by  the  seven  men.    The  five  armed  men 
who  had  been  seen  at  the  hamlet  inn  must  have  gone  away 
around  to  the  west,  and  at  the  moment  of  the  prisoner's 
escape  were  coming  up  and  met  the  fleeing  minstrels  with 
the  maidens,  and.  by  the  united  forces  of  the  seven  men, 
our  leader  fell,  and  with  him  Barrone.     We  looked  all 
about  to  find  the  dead  who  must    have    fallen  by  the 
mighty  sword  of  Amabilli,  whose  arm  had  never  known 
a  victor,  but  we  could  find  none.     We  are  sure  the  sur- 
vivors have  hidden  them  away  i'.  ihe  rocks.     Five  must 
have  been  slain  or  badly  wounded,  as  we  saw  but  two 
going  away  with  the  maiden.     We  feared  to  follow  far, 
lest  by  some  chance  all  of  the  five  had  not  been  slain  and 
might  be  lying  in  ambush  for  us,  and,  as  they  were  known 
to  be  armed  with  guns,  they  must  have  slain  us  without  a 
chance  of  defending  ourselves.     We  ran  a  short  distance 
and  called  loudly  to  the  fleeing  minstrels  to  stop,  and, 
when  they  gave  no  heed,  I  fired  after  them,  taking  most 


MY   FRlExND   BILL. 


245 


careful  aim,  in  hope  to  avenge  oiir  leaders.  The  moment 
1  fired  the  poor  maiden  fell.  Hardened  as  1  am,  I  could 
but  regret  that  shot,  as  it  gained  us  nothing  and  must 
have  mortally  wounded  an  innocent  lady.  And  now, 
counsellor,  what  is  to  be  done?  Wc  cannot  produce  the 
maiden,  and  can  get  no  part  of  the  ransom  wc  have 
worked  so  long  to  gain." 

"And  what  say  you,  my  brother  solicitor?" 

"As  Barritzo  says,  there  is  nothing  to  do.  Our  work 
and  planning  is  for  naught.  We  cannot  produce  the 
daughter  to  receive  the  father's  gold.  We  had  as  well 
stop  at  once." 

"And  you  would  all  stop  at  this  point,  would  you?" 
asked  the  little  solicitor,  rubbing  his  hands  and  chuckling. 
"Ah,  my  friends,  there  is  nothing  so  great  as  a  great 
mind.  I  will  now  take  the  part  of  your  leader,  and  in  one 
day  gain  the  gold,  gold,  gold.  Ha!  ha!  what  a  pretty 
word,  and  so  easy  to  gain  when  one  has  a  mind  great 
enough  to  know  the  w^iy.  Listen  to  my  plan.  It  is  so 
simple,  I  wonder  that  you,  Fulco,  or  even  you,  my  brother 
solicitor,  had  not  thought  of  it — so  simple,  so  very  simple. 
Do  you  follow  my  plan?  Ah,  'tis  well,  'tis  well.  T  knew 
when  once  I  explained  to  your  simple  minds " 

"But,  brother,  what  is  your  plan?" 

"Ho!  ho!  'tis  so  simple.  I  thought  you  had  caught  it 
ere  I  had  told  it  you.  Continue  to  listen.  By  train  to 
Lecco — old  house,  big  room — solicitor  and  I  waiting  with 
three  men,  one  woman  and  satchel  of  gold.  Men  un- 
anned  ;  Barritzo  and  Fulco  rush  in  and  say  : 

"  'Sorr\ .  but  could  not  bring  daughter  to-day.  She 
sends  regrets.  We  will  take  the  gold — bring  daughter 
next  time ;'  rush  out ;  I  will  force  three  men.  one  woman 
into  wine  cellar,  lock  the  door,  fix  hinges — and  then  we 
will  divide  the  gold.     For  the  part  you  three  take  I  will 


t 
t 


lit 


246 


MY   FRI''x\D   BILL. 


give  each  of  you  £500." 

"But,  solicitor,  £500  is  but  a  very  little  of  the  ransom." 
"And  you  forget  that  but  for  my  great  mind  you  had 
not  received  even  that  little!  You  had  all  given  up  and 
would  stop.  Come,  come;  unless  you  agree  to  this  di- 
vision I,  too,  will  stop.  You  see,  I  have  to  divide  my 
share  zvith  a  friend."  And,  like  many  another  since, 
"who  had  a  friend  to  divide  with,"  his  "division"  was 
agreed  to. 


:      ! 


CHAPITER  Xh\. 

Tzvo  dark  figures  intercept  them  zmth  blozvs  from  heavy 
sticks. 


I 


"Ah,  Mr.  Alleyn  and  gentlemen,  we  are  late,  very  late, 
but  in  good  time  for  the  train.  My  brother  here  was  slow 
stirring  this  morning.  I  had  come  from  my  home  and 
was  awaiting  him  at  the  office.  I  am  sorry,  Mr.  Alleyn, 
to  put  you  under  the  painful  humiliation  of  being  searched 
for  arms,  but  you  know  my  friends  are  the  very  soul  of 
honor — soul  of  honor,  and  I  do  not  dare  risk  any  harm 
coming  to  them." 

No  arms  were  found,  as  Mr.  Alleyn  had  explained  the 
condition  on  which  he  was  allowed  to  take  his  two  friends, 
and,  of  course,  they  had  complied.  Arms  to  the  pro- 
fessor would  have  been  dangerous  only  to  himself  or 
friends,  so  'twas  as  well  he  was  not  permitted  to  carry 
them. 

They  reach  Lecco  at  2  o'clock,  have  dinner,  and 
shortly  before  3  are  driven  in  two  carriages  to  the  old 
house,  whose  wine  cellar  is  better  known  to  us  than  the 
house  itself.  The  two  drivers  remain  in  their  carriages 
while  the  two  little  solicitors,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Alleyn  and 
their  two  friends  go  to  the  big  room. 

With  what  anxiety  they  enter!  "Will  they  have  long 
to  wait?" 

"How  will  their  dear  child  look?  Will  ^wt  show  the 
terrible  ordeal  through  which  she  had  passed?"    Ques- 

247 


i 


ij 


248 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


tions  like  these  flew  through  their  minds  with  the  quick- 
ness of  thought  as  they  waited.  The  room  is  large,  al- 
most like  a  great  old  reception  hall,  with  doors  leading 
from  it  into  other  rooms. 

"W'^  are  here,  solicitor,  an*]  tnist  your  friends  will  not 
long  delay  their  coming.  Our  aitxiety  is  ^rreat  to  again 
behold  our  child,  after  these  days  of  terrible  waiting." 

"  'Tis  strange,  most  passing  .^^trange,  they  do  not  come. 
They  are  the  verv  <.>ul  of  honor,  and  promised  to  be  here 
on  the  stroke  of  three,  and  'tis  now  seven  minutes  past. 
But  they  niiist  come  shortly.  They  will  not  break  their 
word — soul  of  honor,  ver)  soul  '.'f  honor!" 

Just  then  the  outer  door  opened,  and  the  two  drivers 
emered — not  drivers  now,  but  bandits.  All  the  assumed 
meekness  of  the  driver  is  gone,  and  in  its  place  their 
natural  fierce  manner.  They  came  boldly  into  the  room 
and  stalked  across  to  where  Mr.  Alleyn  and  his  friends 
stood,  and,  without  any  preliminary  words,  Barritzo  be- 
gan the  si>eech  the  little  solicitor  had  prepared  for  him : 

"Sorry  we  could  not  bring  your  daughter  to-day.  We 
will  bring  her  next  thne.    We  will  take  the  gold " 

*'Stay!"  cried  Mr.  Alleyn.  "Is  this  your  soul  of 
honor?" 

"No,  no,"  exclaims  the  little  man ;  "methinks  they  may 
have  left  that  behind,  too,  to-day — bring  it  next  time. 
Ha !  ha !" 

"You  cannot  have,  the  ransom  until  you  bring  our 
child !"  exclaimed  the  father. 

"We  will  take  the  gold!"  gruffly  growled  Barritzo, 
"and  as  for  your  child,  we  wnll  never  bring  her.  We  can- 
not, as  she  was  killed  in  her  attempt  to  escai:>e."  He  and 
Fulco  rush  for  the  satchel  ,f  g'old,  but  never  reach  it. 
Tvo  dark  figures  inte-cep;  Ihem  with  blows  from  heavy 
r^iirks.     The  rustle  of      a  .ss  is  heard,  and  Nita  rushes 


'i|  V     ] 
fl  !,     >n 


MY   FRIEXD   BILL. 


249 


into  tlie  amis  of  her  mother.  Oh,  what  joy  is  theirs! 
Almost  too  great!  One  moment  of  despair  at  the 
treachery  of  the  bandits,  and  the  next  in  loving  embrace 
of  a  daughter  they  had  given  up  hope  of  ever  seeing 
again.  The  two  solicitors  seemed  not  to  enjoy  the  sight, 
and  were  about  to  depart,  when  the  two  minstrels  called : 
"Stay,  we  will  need  you." 

"This  is  all  the  result  of  your  great  mind,"  almost 
whimpered  the  dull  solicitor  to  his  brighter  (?)  brother. 
"It  never  does  to  l)e  too  brilliant  of  thought,  brother.  I 
will  and  bequeath  to  you  my  £500  share.  It  !>*  very  small, 
'tis  true,  but  all  you  would  allow  to  me.  Ask  Barritzo 
and  Fulco.  They,  too,  may  give  you  their  share.  You 
deserve  it,  as  'twas  your  'great  mind'  that  planned  it  all — 
vour  great  mind  !"  Ikit  before  the  little  man  of  "honor" 
could  reply,  four  stalwart  men  entered  the  room  and  t(x>k 
charge  of  the  prisoners.  "From  whence  came  these  stal- 
warts?" No  one  at  that  moment  could  tell,  unless  it  was 
the  consul,  whose  eyes  took  on  a  merry  twinkle  as  they 
entered. 

It  was  a  happy  party  that  rode  back  to  Milan  that 
evening.  The  days  of  anxiety  were  past.  Terrible  as  had 
been  the  ordeal,  it  was  now  at  an  end. 

Edward's  first  act  w^as  to  send  a  message  home,  to  re- 
lieve the  anxiety  there,  the  consul  having  told  him  that 
he  was  mourned  as  dead. 

There  was  so  much  to  relate  that  long  after  Miss  Al- 
leyn's  return  home  many  things  would  recur  to  her  mind, 
and  no  circumstance  was  too  small  to  be  of  interest  to  her 
father  and  mother,  who  now  worshiped  her  anew  as  one 
from  the  dead.  They  might  have  noticed  that  in  the 
whole  story  of  her  release  only  one  minstrel  plaved  any 
part  in  it.  "When  Edward  had  slain  the  powerful  leader, 
and  we  were  hurrying  away,  three  others  of  the  bandits 


0 


) , 


?, 


J  sgjjggjnnhwwi  ^ 


250 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


■    i 


f      I 


h    ' 


I 


i  ;;■ 


h  '^ 


If  :  ' 


came  up.  They  ran  toward  us,  calling  loudly  for  us  to 
stop.  Edward  heeded  them  not,  but  hurried  on.  My 
nerves  were  in  the  highest  tension  when  one  of  the  bandits 
fired  a  shot  after  us.  I  fell  in  a  faint,  as  though  I  had 
been  struck.  'Twas  well  for  them  that  they  came  no 
further,  else  Edward  had  slain  them  all,  as  he  had  slain 
their  giant  leader.  So  valiant  a  swordsman  I  have  never 
seen  as  Edward." 

The  following  day,  after  their  return  to  Milan,  Edward 
called  at  the  hotel  of  the  Alleyns.  He  was  a  welcome 
guest.  Was  it  gratitude  alone  that  made  his  welcome  so 
hearty  ? 

"Mr.  DeHertbern,"  said  Nita.  later  on  during  his  call, 
^'we  have  known  each  other  but  a  few  days,  and  yet  I 
seem  to  have  seen  and  known  you  before — when  or  where 
I  cannot  tell.  Often  in  the  camp  of  the  ba'^dits  your  face 
impressed  me  as  one  I  had  known  long  ago." 

"Miss  Alleyn,"  began  Edward,  pleased  at  this  speech, 
"have  you  ever  seen  a  face  somewhere  that  came  and 
went  in  a  day,  and  you  knew  not  from  whence  it  came 
or  whither  it  went?" 

"Only  one,  and  that  face  I  may  never  see  again."  Her 
cheeks  colored  at  the  reply  "It  did  not  impress  me  at  the 
time,  but  it  had  scarce  gone  from  my  vision  when  the 
remembrance  of  it  came  back  and  has  never  left  me.  I 
remember  it  only  as  a  face ;  the  outlines  are  gone,  and  I 
would  not  recognuize  it  were  I  to  see  it  again.  It  is  like 
the  "almost  remembered  face"  in  Lucile.  I  have  been  in 
many  lands  since  then,  but  never  until  in  the  camp  of  the 
bandits  did  I  see  a  face  that  even  reminded  me  of  it. 
When  you  came  as  a  minstrel  my  mind  flew  back  to  the 
Eg\'ptian  tomb  where  first  I  saw  that  face.  You  know  it 
is  said  that  every  face  has  its  counterpart  somewhere  in 
the  world.     Your  counterpart  must  have  been  in  Egypt 


MY   FRIEND    BILL. 


251 


)r  us  to 
n.  My 
bandits 
h  I  liad 
anie  no 
id  slain 
e  never 

Edward 
velcome 
:ome  so 

liis  call, 
d  yet  I 
r  where 
>ur  face 

speech, 
ne  and 
it  came 

"  Her 
?  at  the 
len  the 
me.  I 
,  and  I 
:  is  like 
been  in 
>  of  the 
;  of  it. 

to  the 
mow  it 
here  in 

Egypt 


a  year  ago,  else  1  could  not  have  been  so  moved  at  si<;ht 
of  tlie  'minstrel.'  " 

"Tell  me,  Miss  Alleyn,"  said  Edward,  "what  if  you 
could  see  and  know  tliat  face?" 

"Ah!  I  know  not.  A  mere  sight  may  infatuate,  while 
knowing  well  may  disenchant.  Have  you  known  Count 
Drasco  long?" 

"Somewhat  more  than  a  year.  I  met  him  in  New  York, 
while  he  was  visiting  in  America." 

"Professor  Blake  is  an  American,  is  he  not?" 

"No,  I  believe  he  is  English ;  at  least  so  the  Count  has 
told  me."  Edward  felt  almost  that  he  w^as  doing  a  wrong 
in  the  part  he  was  acting,  but  he  would  win  her  love  with- 
out any  aids.  Did  he  tell  her  that  his  was  the  face  she 
had  sought  for  a  year,  that,  with  the  gratitude  which  she 
naturally  felt  toward  him,  might  influence  her  against 
her  own  heart,  and  he  would  win  that  heart  for  himself 
alone. 

"I  have  often  wondered,"  said  Afiss  Alleyn,  "why  you 
should  have  taken  an  interest  in  my  rescue — I,  a  stranger 
to  you !" 

"I  am  an  American,"  Edward  replied,  "and  when  one 
of  my  countrywomen  is  in  danger  I  feel  it  is  my  duty  to 
rescue  her." 

"I  am  not  an  American,"  she  said,  "although  most  of 
my  life  was  passed  in  that  country." 

"You  are  not  an  American !  \Vhv  should  I  have  so 
thought?  I  have  had  that  impression,  and  I  think  the 
Count  has  the  same." 

"No.  I  was  born  in  England  and  went  to  America  as  a 
child,  and  remained  there  until  four  years  ago.  These 
four  vcars  I  have  spent  in  school  in  Paris  and  in  travel." 

Although  Edward  remained  some  time,  their  conversa- 
tion was  of  a  commonplace  order.     His  was  a  delicate 


H 


252 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


* 

1 

; 

i 

1 

1 

1 

^ 

i 
1 

i 

1 

u 

situation.  He  did  not  dare  presume  '^n  the  part  lie  hatl 
played  in  Miss  Alleyn's  rescue,  and  yet  the  promptings 
of  his  heart  were  to  urge  his  suit.  He  could  not  think  of 
her  n-  -  '"ncnd  of  the  few  days  he  had  known  her,  but  the 
fv-eho     '    I.  whole  year. 

ICdward  went  direct  to  the  Consul's  office,  wliere  he  was 
met  witli  a  cordial  greeting.  "Ah,  Mr.  DeHertburn,  glad 
to  see  you!  I  was  intending  to  look  you  up.  I  suppose 
you  have  heiird  ♦''•  :  t^he  little  solicitor  is  making  great 
efforts  to  get  on  this  side  oi  his  prison  door?  No?  Oh, 
yes.  No  less  than  five  of  Lilian's  prominent  men  have 
been  to  see  mc  in  his  behalf.  Some  of  them  are  almost 
insolent  in  their  request  that  he  be  released  without  delay. 
They  claim  that  he  is  entirely  innocent  of  any  knowledge 
of  the  bandits  and  that  he  had  q-one  with  the  two  as  a 
legal  advisor  on  a  matter  which  they  would  explain  to  him 
at  Lecco.  I  have,  on  the  other  hand,  most  positive  evi- 
dence that,  under  the  guise  of  th'  ir  legal  advisor,  this 
solicitor  is,  in  fact,  the  leader  of  the  band  in  Milan.  Even 
the  leader  whom  \ou — well,  tlie  leader  who  did  n...  slay 
you.  was  in  a  manner  unflcr  control  of  this  man.  I  fur  'ler 
find  that  this  band  of  •  itlaws  is  far-reaching  :■  has 
emissar'c^s  in  all  the  cities  of  Xortliern  Italy.  The  gov- 
ermnent  is  rea'ly  anxious  to  break  it  up,  as  tourists  are 
L  -omi.ig  feai  l'uI  of  'raveling  here.  And  now,  if  you 
and  Mr.  Alleyn  will  give  me  your  support,  I  will  agree 
that  few  of  then  will  be  -  ^ft  out  of  prison  or  on  this  side 
of  America.  Once  we  get  them  there  we  will  make  law- 
abiding  citizens  '  i  cf  them.  DeHertburn,  great  country 
that  of  our  for  t  rning  a  savage  1  mdit  into  a  meek  street 
sweeper,  er 

"You  niir  count  on  myself  and  I  am  quite  sure  Mr. 
Alleyn  will  most  heartily  lend  nis  aid  to  the  movement." 

"DeHertburn,  let  me  show  you  a  sword  that  i-  ne  of  my 
men  took  from  the  big  bandit  yesterday  at  Lecco.     He 


MV   1-RlEXD    BILL. 


253 


I  lie  had 

Miiptings 

think  of 

,  but  the 

c  lie  was 
irn,  glad 
suppose 
ng  great 
o?  Oh, 
len  have 
e  almost 
ut  delay. 
lowleJge 
vvf)  as  a 
n  to  him 
itive  cvi- 
^or,  this 
1  Even 
n.  c  slay 
I  fur'ier 
ati  I  has 
Pile  gov- 
rists  are 
.  if  you 
ill  agree 
this  side 
ake  law- 
country 
ek  street 

uire  Mr. 
venicnt." 
le  of  my 
:co.     He 


brought  ii  here  this  morning.  Isn't  that  a  fine  onc^ 
Notice  the  carving." 

'Wild  see,"  said  Edward,  "this  coat  of  arms  on  the  hilt. 
Had  not  noticed  it?  Some  unfortunate  tourist,  no 
doubt!" 

"Tourists,"  said  the  Consul,  "are  not  in  the  habit  of 
carrying  swords  about  the  country  uilh  iheni.  This  one 
must  have  belonged  to  no  ordinary  ix'rsonage.  1  have 
seldom  seen  so  tine  a  blade  or  one  of  so  elegant  mount- 
ing. This  morning  the  men  1  sent  to  get  the  particulars 
of  your  'assassination'  returned.  They  bring  but  meagre 
word.  They  learned  from  a  little  priest  that  the  only 
stranr'Ts  who  have  been  in  the  hamlet  near  the  Pass 
were  two  minstrels.'  When  asked  about  the  young  man 
who  was  slain,  he  denied  all  knowledge  of  bini." 

"The  little  villain!"  exclaimal  Edward.  We  saw  this 
very  same  priest  and  heard  him  read  the  funeral  service 
over  the  man  whom  the  bandits  spake  of  as  an  English- 
man." ♦ 

"An  Englishman?"  asked  the  Consul.  "I  will  at  once 
see  the  English  Consul  and  lay  the  facts  before  him.  U, 
indeed,  he  were  Eng'ish  we  will  find  in  the  Consul  of  that 
country  an  active  ally."  Edward  then  related  to  his  friend 
all  that  he  had  learned  of  the  young  man ;  how  that  he 
had  been  slain  by  .\mabilli  and  '  rought  to  the  hamlet  and 
buried  near  a  large  tree  by  the  inn.  He  did  not  know  how 
nearly  he  had  come  k  g  laid  himself  'neath  that  tree. 
All  the  time,  while  Edward  \v.,s  looking  at  the  sword,  he 
was  asking  himself:  "Where  have  I  s.en  this  coat  of 
arms?  There  is  something  so  familiar,  ibou*  it  that  u 
seeni'^  not  new  to  me."  He  cu- Id  not  recall  it.  In 
America  a  coat  of  arms  means  en  little  that  ar.p-  o-jv.  \t 
but  scant  thougli'.  Time  an«i  again  "the  raven  ngs,  on 
a  cown,  siirmou;  :ing  a  shield  on  whit  h  were  in.  jts  and 
bars."  would  come  into  his  mind,  but  he  could  not  place  it. 


m 


i| 


I 


s 

iiii 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 

Father,  if  only  the  perfect  men  were  chosen  as  husbands^ 

there  zvould  be  but  few  zvives. 
One  may  almost  love  as  a  friend,  and  hate  that  friend  if 

forced  on  one  as  a  lover. 

Count  Drasco  owed  nuich  of  social  pleasure  to  Edward 
during  his  visit  in  New  York,  and  had  already  laid  many 
plans  for  returning  these  pleasures;  hut  when  lie  pro- 
posed them  to  Edward  he  found  him  in  no  humor  for  any 
society  aside  from  what  he  could  find  at  the  hotel  of  the 
Alleyns.  "I  have  no  heart,"  he  would  say,  "for  anything 
social.  I  have  told  you  how  that,  for  the  past  year,  1 
have  thought  only  of  one,  and  that  one  I  felt  was  forever 
lost  to  me,  but  now  that  I  have  again  found  the  object 
of  my  heart's  longing,  I  can  think  of  naught  else."  He 
was  so  earnest  that  the  Count  would  not  urge  him. 

Brave  almost  to  a  fault  when  face  to  face  with  real 
danger,  Edward  now  felt  himself  a  coward.  He  would 
know  his  fate,  ar.d  yet  feared  to  put  to  the  test  the 
means  of  learning  it.  "I  may  be  too  late."  he  would  say 
to  himself.  "Some  one  else  may  have  seen  in  her  the  one 
being  in  all  this  world  to  him.  and  have  received  from  her 
a  promise  she  cannot  break.  So  much  of  worth  and 
beauty  cannot  have  been  left  alone  for  me!"  He  is  now 
quite  as  despondent,  having  found  the  object  of  his  search, 
as  he  was  when  he  thousrht  that  object  forever  lost  to 


urn. 


254 


TWY   FRIEND   BILL. 


255 


usbaiids, 
'ricnd  if 


Edward 
id  many 
he  pro- 

for  any 
A  of  the 
invthinc: 

year,  I 

forever 
e  obi'ect 
e."  He 
m. 

ith  real 
s  would 
test  the 
)uld  say 

the  one 
rom  her 
rth    and 

is  now 
1  search, 

lost  to 

!54 


His  was  not  the  only  yearning  iieart !  Sealed  at  liic 
piano  that  evening  we  find  Nita  softly  singing  "Juan:i:i," 
which  had  been  running  in  her  mind  since  that  memorable 
night  when  it  had  brought  so  much  of  hope  to  her.  She 
had  forgotten  in  the  song  that  her  father  and  motlier 
were  near  her.  She  had  forgotten  all  else  but  the  minstrel 
and  his  .song.  When  her  father  spoke,  she  started,  and 
seemed  to  wake  as  from  a  sleep.  "Whv,  father,"  she 
said,  "you  startled  me !" 

"Yes,  my  little  girl :  you  seemed  to  have  been  away  off. 
Where,  I  wonder,  could  you  have  been  that  you  had  so 
forgotten  us?  Ah,  methinks  my  little  girl  was  in  her 
English  home,  singing  to  her  cousin  lover." 

"Father,  why  do  you  taunt  me  with  my  fate?  Is  it  not 
enough  to  be  bound  to  one  I  can  never  love,  without  being 
reminded  of  it  continually?" 

"You  forget,  my  darling  child,  that  it  was  the  will  of 
my  father  that  you  should  marry  your  distant  cousin,  Lord 
Clarence  Aglionby.  that  our  two  houses  might  again  be 
brought  together." 

"No,  father,  I  do  not  forget  it.  I  cannot  forget  it.  I 
lie  awake  far  into  the  night  thinking  of  the  bitter  fate  that 
awaits  me.  Oh,  why— why  coukl  vour  father  have  thus 
l)Hghted  my  life?" 

"Was  it  to  blight  your  life  to  choose  for  you  a  husband, 
a  man  of  so  superior  character  as  your  Cousin  Clarence? 
He  has  all  the  finer  qualities  of  character  that  go  to  make 
the  perfect  man." 

"Father,  if  only  the  perfect  men  were  chosen  as  hus- 
bands, there  would  be  but  few  ^vives.  I  would  take  as  a 
husba!i(l  nne  T  could  truly  love  far  rather  than  the  most 
perfect  ciiaracter  that  ever  lived.  The  heart  does  not  seek 
perfection.  It  seeks  love.  The  most  homelv  face  to  the 
eye  is  often  the  most  beautiful  to  the  heart.     Clarence  may 


r 


$  if  ■ 

f'  i' 


m 


'ill  i 

'i^  1 . 

I^BI^^,^ 

256 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


be  the  most  perfect  of  men  in  form  and  character,  but  to 
my  heart  he  is  the  most  defomied,  and  I  can  never  love 
him." 

"Nita,  when  first  you  knew  of  your  grandfather's 
wishes  you  did  not  feel  toward  your  cousin  any  ill.  You 
seemed  then  even  to  like  him  well." 

"Yes,  father;  but  you  forget  that  one  may  almost  love 
as  a  friend  and  hate  that  friend  if  forced  on  one  as  a  lover. 
Clarence  and  I  could  have  been  the  best  of  cousins,  but 
the  moment  i  had  to  think  of  him  as  a  husband  I  even  dis- 
liked him  as  a  cousin." 

"Nita,  you  even  liked  him  well  until  we  visited  Egypt, 
since  which  time  you  seem  to  have  cared  less  and  less  for 
him,  but  I  did  not  know  until  this  night  that  you  had  such 
an  aversion  for  him.  My  child,  is  there  another  your 
heart  would  choose?"  She  hesitated  and  did  not  reply. 
"Tell  mc,"  he  urged,  "if  you  were  free  to  choose,  is  there 
another?" 

"Yes,  father,  there  is  one  to  whom  my  very  soul  goes 
out.  Without  his  love  my  life  were  worse  than  death  to 
mc." 

"Who  can  have  so  won  your  love?  Have  you  kept 
from  us  this  secret  all  this  while?" 

"Ah,  father,  'this  while'  is  very  short." 

"You  cannot  mean  ^Ir.  DeHertbern  or  tlie  Count, 
whom  you  have  known  so  short  a  time?"  anxiously  in- 
quired her  father. 

"Yes,    father— it— is— Edward    DeHertlx'rn    whom    I 

love!" 

"And  has  he  dared  speak  to  you  of  love?" 
"No,  father;  he  has  ever  kept  far  away  from  the  sub- 
ject, and  that  is  why  my  he.  rt  of  times  feels  as  if  it  would 
break !" 

"Come,  Nita,"  more  softly,  "ny  little  girl,  you  must  not 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


257 


r,  but  to 
ver  love 

Jfather's 
11.    You 

lost  love 
5  a  lover, 
sins,  but 
;ven  dis- 

J  Egypt, 
i  less  for 
had  such 
ler  your 
ot  reply. 
,  is  there 

lOul  goes 
death  to 

•ou   kept 


;    Count, 
Dusly  in- 

whoni    I 


the  sub- 
it  would 

must  not 


mistake  gratitude  for  love.  Mr.  DeHertbern  risked  his 
life  for  you,  and  we  all  should  feel  very  grateful  to  him 
for  it." 

"Father,  could  the  feeling  I  had  for  him  in  the  bandits' 
camp  have  been  one  of  gratitude  when  I  saw  him  as  a 
minstrel,  before  I  knew  him  as  a  friend,  come  to  save  me 
from  an  awful  fate?  That  feeling  was  not  gratitude.  It 
was  the  same  that  now  1  feel  and  I  know  is  love.  The 
Count,  too,  helped  to  rescue  me.  If  gratitude,  I  would 
feel  the  same  toward  both." 

"Nita,  prepare  your  mind  to  hear  that  which  would  for- 
ever prevent  your  marriage  to  Mr.  Dcllertbern,  even 
though  you  were  not  already  bound  to  Lord  Aglionby. 
My  father's  will,  which  has  said  you  shall  marry  your 
cousin,  also  says  that  if  Clarence  should  die  before  his 
marriage  to  you  that  you  shall  not  many  an  American!" 

"Does  it  say  that?  (3h,  father,  why  should  he  have 
been  so  minded  as  to  wreck  your  young  life  by  act,  and 
mine  by  his  will!  I  care  not  now  what  may  come!  I 
am  resigned  to  any  fate!  (^h.  why  was  I  not  saved  this 
misery  ?  Would  that  the  aim  of  the  bandit  had  been  true  ! 
I  had  been  better  dead!" 

"Child,  you  know  not  what  you  are  saying.  Have  you 
nr  !()ve  for  us?  We,  who  have  ever  tried  to  make  your 
young  life  sweet  and  hai)py,  can  ill  hear  you  speak  thus." 

"Mother,  forgive  me,  but  my  heart  seems  breaking! 
Let  us  go  away  from  here !  'Where  ?'  Any  place  where 
I  will  have  nothing  to  remind  me  of  Edward.  Oh.  T  must 
sec  him  once  more.  I  wish  then  to  go  back  to  England, 
and  on  the  most  remote  part  of  your  possessions  hide 
away  from  the  world  until  I  will  have  to  come  out  to  face 
it  as  the  wife  of  a  man  I  can  never  love." 

When  Edward  called  the  next  da\  lie  was  told  that 
Nita  was  very  ill.     Brain  fever  was  feared.     "The  strain 


ii 


i,  I 


258 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


Sfe^e  '^ 


Oil  her  mind  during  her  captivity  was  too  great,  and  she 
has,  1  fear,  broken  down  under  it,"  explained  Mr.  Alleyn. 

"I  am  greatly  surprised,"  said  Edward,  "for  she  seemed 
very  well  yesterday,  and  quite  happy  in  being  with  you 
again."  He  did  not  dare  remain,  else  he  had  broken 
down  in  Mr.  Alleyn's  presence.  He  called  a  number  of 
times  during  the  day  to  inquire.  He  could  find  no  rest 
away  and  no  comfort  near,  and  yet  he  wandered  back  and 
forth  all  the  day  long.  So  intense  became  his  grief  at  last 
that  he  felt  he  owed  to  Mr.  Alleyn  an  explanation  of  his 
interest.  So,  on  meeting  that  gentleman,  he  timidly 
began:  "Vou  must  see  that  my  interest  in  your  daughter 
is  not  that  of  a  mere  friend.  With  possibly  no  right  I 
have  grown  to  love^ " 

"Stop,  Mr.  DeHertbern."  broke  in  Mr.  vMleyn,  "you 
must  go  no  further.  J  owe  too  much  to  you  to  allow  this 
to  continue.     Nita  is  the  promised  wife  of  another." 

Edxyard's  greatest  fears  were  thus  harshly  realized  at 
the  very  moment  when  his  grief  at  her  sudden  illness  was 
most  intense.  He  fain  would  have  left  Milan  at  once,  but 
he  could  not  go  while  Xita  continued  ill.  He  must  see 
her  once  more,  even  though  it  would  wring  his  heart  to 
part  with  her.  She  would  never  know  the  depths  of 
his  love.  He  would  wait  until  she  might  see  him.  He 
would  say  good-by  as  a  friend  and  see  her  no  more.  The 
face  which  had  looked  out  from  memory  upon  him  for  a 
weary  year  had  lieen  found  at  last,  but  that  face  could 
never  be  his — another  had  claimed  it. 

The  ills  of  this  life  seldom  come  alone.  That  day  Lord 
.\lleyn  had  received  a  letter  from  England  stating  that 
Lord  .Vglionby  had  left  London  for  Paris  about  one  month 
before,  and  that  nothing  had  been  heard  from  him  since 
the  day  he  reached  that  city.  In  that  letter  ]\v  s-rake  of 
having  just  heard  that  Xita  had  been  taken  captive  by 


;     '< 


iMY   FRIEND   BILL. 


,  and  she 
r.  Alleyn. 
e  seemed 
with  you 
1  broken 
nnber  of 
1  no  rest 
back  and 
ef  at  last 
Ml  of  his 
timidly 
daugliter 
>  right  I 

yn.  "you 
How  til  is 
^r. 

alized  at 
ness  was 
:>nce,  but 
must  see 
heart  to 
epths  of 
im.  He 
re.  The 
im  for  a 
ce  could 

lay  Lord 
ing  that 
le  month 
lini  since 

-i-->ke  of 
ptivc  by 


259 


bandits  in  a  certain  place  in  Xorthcrn  Italy.     That  is  all 
he  h-d  said.     His  friends  had  looked  for' him  in   Paris, 
but  could  find  no  trace  of  him.     This  greatly  worried  Mr. 
Alleyn,  as  Clarence  had  ncncr  been  one  of  those  travelers 
who  come  and  go  without  any  word  to  their  friends  at 
home.     He  had  always  kept  them  informed  just  where 
he  was,  and  four  weeks  away,  and  no  word,  was  alarm- 
ing!    Mr.  Alleyn  would  see  his  English  Consul  at  once 
and  advise  with  him  as  to  what  should  be  done.     As  he 
entered    that    gentleman's    office    he    was    greeted    with: 
"Glad  to  see  vou,   Mr.   Alleyu.     1   was  on  the  point  of 
going  to  your  hotel  on  a  very  iniix)rtant  matter.     It  ha,- 
just  reached  my  ears  that  one  of  our  countrymen  has  iiK-t 
his  death  almost  in  the  same  place  that  your  daughter 
was  taken.     I  had  heard  of  this  at  the  time,  but  you  will 
remember  it  was  reported  that  the  young  man   was  an 
American.     I  did,  however,  dispatch  five  men  to  investi- 
gate the  afifair,  but  they   returned  and   said   they  could 
learn  nothing  whatever  of  the  matter.     1  have  just  heard, 
from  the  American   Consul,  that  when  the  two  bandits 
were  taken,  along  with  the  two  solicitors,  at  Lecco.  that 
a  beautiful   sword   was   found  on   one  of  the  prisoners. 
\\  liether  it  will  Ix"  of  any  aid  to  us.  1  do  not  know,  but 
the  Consul  left  it  with  me.     Here  it  is.     It  is  a  magnifi- 
cent cme." 

At  that  moment  Mr.  Alleyn  caught  sight  of  the  coat  of 
arms  on  the  hilt.  "My  worse  fears  are  true!  See  this 
coat  of  arms?  It  is  tliat  of  onr  family,  and  the  young 
man  is  none  other  than  Lord  Clarence  Aglionby.  who.  I 
have  just  heard,  has  been  gone  from  his  li-Miie  for  a 
month,     \\1iat  further  did  you  learn?" 

"Vou  have  heard,  no  doubt."  replied  the  Consul,  "from 
Count  Drasco  and  the  American  all  that  they  knew  about 
the  young  man  whom  they  saw  buried  at  the  inn  near  the 


I 


I    • 


u 


( 


11 


li 


260 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


pass?  You  have  heard  them  speak  nothing  of  the  affair? 
You  will  do  well  to  see  them  without  delay.  1  believe 
they  saw  the  young  man  and  may  be  able  to  describe  him 
to  you.  We  will  hope  their  account  will  prove  to  you 
that  your  fears  are  unfounded." 

Mr.  Alleyn  went  directly  to  the  Count's  home,  where 
he  met  Edward.  He  began  at  once  his  sad  inquiry.  So 
deep  had  been  the  impression  made  on  their  minds  at  sight 
of  the  young  man  at  the  hamlet  inn  that  they  could 
describe  him  as  though  looking  on  a  picture,  and  when 
they  had  concluded,  Mr.  Alleyn  had  no  longer  a  doubt. 

"It  is  he — poor  Aglionby !  What  did  you  learn  in  con- 
nection with  the  sad  affair?"' 

"We  learned  that  he  had  been  slain  at  the  fateful  moun- 
tain pass,"  said  the  <''ount,  "by  Amabilli,  the  bandit  leader, 
whom  we  met  just  after  the  tragedy.  The  body  was 
brought  directly  to  the  inn,  but  we  did  not  learn  of  it  until 
very  late  in  the  night.  Edward's  surprise  was  so  great 
on  hearing  of  it  that  the  interest  he  manifested  came 
near  resulting  in  one  or  two  more  tragedies.  They  be- 
cam.e  very  suspicious  of  us.  Was  he  an  Englishman,  as 
was  thought?" 

"Y\'s,  and  a  dear  relative  of  our  family.  Have  you  de- 
scribed to  the  Consul  the  exact  location  of  his  grave?" 

"Yes,  most  fully,  and  have  advised  him  of  all  our  ob- 
servations. He,  with  the  cooperation  of  our  American 
Consul,  will  leave  nothing  undone  to  avenge  the  death  of 
vonr  friend." 

Mr.  Alleyn  at  once  sent  the  sad  news  back  to  England. 
He  also  sent  to  his  lawyers  for  a  copy  of  his  father's  will, 
as  he  remembered  that  there  was  in  it  a  codicil  touching 
on  the  event  of  Lord  Aglionby's  death ;  certain  estates  left 
him  should  revert  to  Clarence's  brothers.  Ke  was  not 
sure  as  to  the  wording  of  it,  and  it  might  be  necessary  for 


MY   FRIEND  BILL. 


261 


t  affair? 

believe 
ribe  him 

to  you 

?,  where 
iry.  So 
at  sight 
y  could 
id  when 
1  doubt. 
1  in  con- 

il  moun- 
t  leader, 
)dy  was 
f  it  until 
so  great 
id  came 
Phey  be- 
iman,  as 

you  de- 
■ave?" 

our  ob- 
imerican 
death  of 

England, 
er's  will, 
touching 
tates  left 
was  not 
iisarv  for 


him  to  return  to  England,  which  he  could  not  do  while 
Nita  was  so  ill.  On  his  return  to  the  hotel  he  found  her 
much  worse.  She  did  not  know  him.  "Go  away.  1  will 
not  have  to  fulfill  my  part.  I  will  soon  be  free — free  as  a 
bird,  to  fly  away.  Grandfather  thought  to  bind  me  here, 
but  I  will  not  stay — will  not  stay/'  and  her  mind  ran  on 
in  wild  wanderings.  "Yes,  Edward,  I  am  going.  I  will 
wait  for  you,  as  1  have  long  waited  for  the  unknown 
face.  They  may  bind  me  here,  luit  not  there — not  there. 
Oh,  the  bandits!  the  bandits!  Too  late!  They  have 
taken  me  again,  but  Edward  will  come  for  me.  He  will 
sing  again  for  his  Nita.  He  will  know  his  Nita  now. 
He  did  not  know  her  then,  and  yet  he  sang  to  Nita.  Our 
hearts  knew  each  other — our  hearts."  She  would  sleep, 
and  start  up  and  cry  out  as  though  she  were  again  a  cap- 
tive. She  seldom  would  speak  any  name  but  Edward's. 
His  name  was  ever  on  her  lips.  Her  father  and  mother 
were  grief-stricken,  as  the  days  went  by,  at  the  thought 
of  her  death.     The  physicians  gave  them  no  hope. 

''The  strain  on  her  mind  during  her  captivity  was 
great,"  said  the  attendaiu  pliysician.  "but  you  say  she 
seemed  well  on  her  return  ?  There  must  then  be  another 
cause,  or  rather  an  assistant  cause.  Has  anything  oc- 
curred since  her  return  that  would  in  any  way  give  her 
worry?  It  need  have  been  but  slight,  as  her  mind 
although  apparently  normal,  needed  but  little  to  cause  this 
result."  He  had  followed  his  question  with  an  explana- 
tion, and  they  not  replying  at  once,  he  did  not  j>ress  them 
for  an  answer;  but  they  knew  too  well  the  cause.  One 
day  W'hen  Nita  appeared  to  be  almost  gone,  the  (hx'tor 
nsked,   "Who   is   Edward,    \\\um\    she   continually    talks 

.••)OUt?" 

"He  is  one  of  the  young  men  of  whom  I  told  you,  who 
had  rescued  her  from  the  camp  of  Ijandits." 


I 


262 


MY    FRIEND    BILL. 


*'lt  is  our  last  liupc.  Have  him  come  at  once,  and  if  for 
a  moment  lier  mind  should  come  back  and  she  see  him 
here,  she  may  rally.  Lose  no  time,  as  even  now  I  fear  it 
is  too  late  !"  Edward,  who  now  spent  all  of  his  time  near- 
by, was  hastily  summoned.  She  did  not  recognize  him. 
She  continually  talked  on  about  the  camp.  "He  sang  to 
Nita.  though  he  did  not  know  Xita.  He  will  sometime 
know  Nita — sometime.  They  won't  marry  me  to  Clar- 
ence now.  1  am  so  hai)py — so  hapjn- — 1  will  soon  go 
away— away  off — away!  Oh.  Edward,  save  me— the 
giant  bandit !" 

"Nita!     Nita!   here  I  am!" 

"His  voice— oh,  papa— his  voice.  I  heard  him  call  to 
me.  He  will  save  me.  papa.  The  will  says  I  may  never 
be  his,  but  I  will  love  him  always,  always.  1  will  wait 
for  him — wait  for  him — wait — for  my  Edward  !" 

"Too  late."  softly  sfwke  the  doctor.  "I  feared  it.  Had 
1  known  in  time  we  might  have  saved  her.  Hold !  there 
is  a  faint  i)ulse  yet,  very,  very  faint.  If  her  mind  could 
(Mily  rest  she  might  yet  live."  From  that  moment  she 
went  off  into  a  gentle  sleep,  the  first  restful  sleep  for  many 
days.  The  next  morning  a  slight  change  for  the  better 
was  noticed,  and  once  or  twice  during  the  dav  her  mind 
returned  for  a  few  moments.  During  these  lucid  inter- 
vals she  spoke  but  little.  She  .seaned  very  sad.  At  one 
time  she  said  to  tiie  nurse:  "Oh,  why  did  they  bring  me 
back?     I  thought  I  had  gone,  and  I  was  so  happv !" 

She  was  slightly  better  next  day,  but  that  awful  sad- 
ness clung  to  her.  and  she  would  continually  rejx^at.  "Why 
did  they  1>ring  me  back?"     "Nurse,  have  I  been  very  ill?" 
"Yes.  Nita.  you  were  quite  ill.  but  you  will  .soon  be  well 
again." 

••v„r.,..  T  ..h,  ,^ot  want  to  get  well.     I  have  nothing  to 
Ii\e  fcr;  I  w  iTc  hrppier  gone  !" 


nd  if  for 
see  him 
I  fear  it 
lie  near- 
ize  him. 
sang  to 
Diiietime 
to  Clar- 
sOOll   go 

me — the 


1  call  to 
V  never 
ill  wait 


:.  Had 
1!  there 
d  could 
ent  she 
►r  many 
^  hotter 
■r  mind 
1  imer- 
At  one 
int^  me 
!" 

ul  sad- 
,  "Whv 
ry  ill?'* 
he  well 

lin^  to 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


263 


"Come,  come,  my  little  patient  must  not  talk  so.  You 
will  soon  be  well,  and  then  you  will  he  very  happv  again." 

"Nurse,  I  will  never  be  happy  again!" 

"Come,  now.  go  to  sleep."  She  s[x:>ke  to  her  as  to  a 
little  child.  The  nurse  was  very  gentle,  hut  very  indis- 
creet, as  when  Xita  asked.  "Nurse,  has  there  been  any  one 
here  while  I  was  ill  whom  they  called  Clarence?"  she  an- 
swered, "Why,  if  it  is  your  cousin  you  mean,  he  is  dead!" 

"Dead  !  My  cousin  Clarence  dead  ?  ( )h,  tell  me  about 
him."  Atul  tlie  nurse  repeated  all  she  had  heard  from 
first  to  last. 

When  next  the  doctor  called  he  found  his  patient  so 
much  improved  that  he  could  but  remark  the  change. 

"Oh,  doctor."  said  Nita.  "I  really  believe  I  am  going 
to  get  well.  1  don't  know  why,  doctor,  but  the  world 
.seems  so  much  brighter  to  me  to-day.  Was  I  very  ill, 
doctor?" 

"Yes,  you  were  quite  ill  for  a  time,  Nita,  but  I  will  soon 
have  you  well  and  happy." 

"Yes,  doctor.  I  feel  that  I  will  Ix;  well  and  very  happy 
again.  Doctor,  is  this  a  brighter  day  than  usual  ?  I  don't 
know  why,  but  it  does  seem  so  to  me.  I  am  very  weak, 
I  know,  but  1  just  feel  as  though  I  could  get  up  and  walk 
about." 

Mrs.  Alleyn  remarkexl  to  her  husband  that  evening: 
'■I>r.  Herman  is  certainly  a  most  remarkable  i)hysician ! 
Have  you  noticed  how  Nita  has  imj)roved  since  his  last 
visit?  The  change  is  marvelous!  The  nurse  tells  me 
that  all  that  despontlcncy  is  gone,  and  that  Nita  never  ex- 
claims, as  she  has  all  along.  'Oh.  why  did  they  bring  me 
back !'  The  nurse  says  she  has  never  seen  so  remarka- 
ble a  recovery.  Charles,  do  you  think  we  could  mention 
Clarence's  sad  taking  ott  to  her?" 


EI  3 
«  I 


I  I 


'I 


264 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


"My  dear,  I  am  surprised  that  could  ask  that  question. 
Why,  in  her  weak  state  of  mind  it  would  surely  bring:  on 
a  return  of  the  fever,  and  you  know  what  a  relapse  is !" 

"Forg-ive  me.     I  see  it  would  never  do." 


Jm 


question, 
bririjs:  on 
seis!" 


CHAPTER  XLVir. 

PVhcn  the  heart  is  glad,  the  eye  sees  naught  but  the  bi\iu> 
tifulj  and  the  ear  hears  nothing  that  is  not  pleasing. 

In  a  few  days  Nita  was  so  far  recovered  tliat  slie  could 
ride  out  with  her  father  and  motlier.  On  their  first  drive 
they  met  Edward.  He  had  not  seen  lier  since  her  re- 
covery. Nita  involuntarily  called  to  the  driver  to  stop. 
*'Mr.  DePIcrtbern,  we  are  so  glad  to  see  you!  I  am 
almost  well  again.  I  feel  like  a  little  child,  this  bright 
morning,  [t  has  been  so  long  since  I  was  out  that  I 
quite  thoroughly  enjoy  the  drive.  You  must  run  in  to 
see  us." 
"I  propose  returning  to  America  shortly." 
"Oh,  no,  Edw — Mr.  DeHertbern,  I  mean ;  we  cannot 
allow  you  to  go  for  a  long  while  yet.  Just  to  think  of  it ! 
The  bandits  might  capture  me  again,  and  who  could  rescue 
me  as  you  did?" 

"Oh,"  laughed  Edward,  *'in  case  they  should  want  you 
to  brighten  their  camp  again,  send  me  word  and  I  will 
sail  across  and  deliver  you  back  to  Milan,  but  I  will  not 
go  as  a  minstrel  the  next  time.  They  will  never  again 
trust  a  minstrel,  however  despondent  their  captive  maid- 
ens may  become." 

"Come,  then,"  said  Nita,  "as  a  knight  errant !" 
"Seeking    his    fair    lady?""'    inquired    Edward — hardly 
thinking  of  the  full  meaning  of  the  question. 

265 


, 


II 


I 


I 


I 


*# 


( I  i 


i  J 


1   > 


266 


MY   FRIF.ND   BILL. 


"Yes,  with  a  hope  of  her  rescue.    We  will  look  .or  you 
this  evening." 

And  they  drove  away,  Nita  sniihng  back  at  him  with 
a  kK)k  he  had  never  before  seen  en  1  cr  face. 

And  yet  this  was  she  who  was  to  be  the  bride  of  a;  - 
other!  Kdward  could  not  understand.  In  her  delirium 
siie  had  spoken  of  "Clarence;"  he  it  must  be  who  is  the 
"another."  That  she  does  not  love  that  other  he  knew, 
and  that  she  does  love  himself  Edward  is  convinced. 
"She  spoke  of  a  will,  and  that  it  sal  '  she  could  never  be 
mine;  how  could  anyone  know  me.  Ah!  it  was  but  the 
wild  fancies  of  a  delirious  mind !  Jler  father  has  told  mo 
tliat  she  is  to  be  another's !  I  will  go  away  Why  remain 
here.'  It  were  a  kindness  to  her  that  she  see  me  no  more 
if  she  love  me;  and  if  she  can  never  be  mine.  \vh\  remain 
where  I  must  see  the  object  i  can  never  hope  i  gain?  I 
will  see  her  once  more,  and  then  bid  goodby  to  Milan  and 
all  that  it  holds  dear  to  me."  And  the  same  old  sadness 
v.'as  on  his  face. 

Edward  had  told  the  Count  that  he  would  .soon  go  back 
?  \merica.  The  Count  asked  not  why.  for  he  knew,  as 
Edward  had  told  him  that  Nita  could  never  be  his ;  that 
she  was  to  be  the  bride  of  another. 

Nita  was  in  her  best  spirits  that  evcm'ng.  Her  carriage 
drive  had  startcfl  again  the  color  in  her  cheeks.  The 
world  seemed  to  have  taken  on  a  brighter  hue;  the  tlowers 
were  more  brilliant,  the  birds  in  the  parks  had  sweeter 
notes,  and  appeared  hapjiier  in  their  songs  than  she  had 
ever  before  heard  them.  The  people  whom  they  met,  even 
the  tired  workmen  on  their  way  home  seemed  more  joy- 
ous than  she  had  ever  remembered  seeing  them.  Ah ! 
when  the  heart  is  glad  the  eye  sees  naught  but  the  beanti- 
fui,  and  the  ear  hears  nothing  that  is  not  pleasing. 
Was  it  the  drive  alone  that  had  started  that  color  ting- 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


267 


itii  with 

3  of  ar- 
k'lirium 
o  is  the 
e  knew, 
ivinced. 
icvci  ... 
but  the 
told  nio 

remain 
10  more 

remain 
ain  ?  I 
Ian  and 
sadness 

?o  hack- 
new,  as 
is;  tliat 

arriaj.jc 
.  The 
flowers 
iweeter 
he  had 
't,  even 
re  jov- 
.  Ah ! 
hcanti- 

r  ting- 


ling into  her  cheek  again  -'  Was  it  that  she  lad  recovered 
frc.ni  iier  serious  ilhics;  t  .aused  her  Ik  art  to  feel  so 
liglu.  Could  it  not  hav  been  that  she  felt  tl  e  release 
from  a  Uiairiage  so  wholly  saddening  to  her?  And  yet. 
even  though  she  were  released  from  a  union  that  could 
never  bring  her  a  day's  happiness,  she  still  could  not  mar- 
ry the  one  whom  she  could  love  as  that  awful  will  said  no 
American  could  Ijc  her  husband.  While  Niia  sat  waiting 
for  Kdward,  happy  ami  yet  at  times  sad  in  her  contcmj)la- 
tions,  her  father  ca  -^'^  in.  holding  a  voluminous  paper  in 
his  hand. 

**Xita,"  said  he,  .lave  just  received  from  England  a 
copy  of  my  father's  will,  anc'  In  it  I  tind  a  strange  wording 
at  the  point  referring  to  you.  where  you  are  prohibited 
marrying  an  American  ;  there  is  what  is  called  a  codicil, 
something  thought  of  after  the  body  of  the  will  had  Ix'eii 
written.  Listen  to  what  it  says:  that  you  may  marry  an 
American  under  certain  conditions,  only  in  the  event  of 
Lord  ClareP'-e  Aglionby's  death.  'I'hose  conditions  :  re 
that  if  an  American,  who  can  trace  a  true  line  back  [o  our 
family  tree,  should  ask  your  hand  in  marriage  he  may  l)c 
accepted.  It  also  says  that  the  estate  which  was  to  have 
gone  to  Lord  Clarence  Aglionby  "shall  go  to  the  husband 
of  my  Ixdoved  granddaughter  .Anita." 

"Why,  father,"  said  Nita,  "he  had  as  well  left  oflf  that 
codicil.  Ill  the  tirst  place,  the  Americans  are  so  proud  of 
their  own  cointry  that  they  claim  no  family  tree  which 
was  not  gr,>wn  on  American  soil.  In  the  second  f)lace, 
they  do  not  keep  records  as  you  in  England  keep  them. 
And,  thirdly,  as  the  minister  woidd  say,  did  your  father 
think  that  1  should  ever  meet  and  love  the  possible  one  in 
tb.c  thousands  of  families  in  America?  I  had  always 
tliougjit  of  my  dear  old  grandfather  as  a  man  verv  sedate, 
very,  very  serious,  yet  he  must  have  had  in  him  a  large 


m 


11 
1 1 


«^ 


^B-,, 


MICROCOPY    RESOLUTION    TEST   CHART 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  2) 


1.0 


I.I 


1.25 


Hi    p.8 

2.5 

•  43 

If   Ui, 

2.2 
2.0 

1.8 

1.4 

1.6 

A    APPLIED  iM/^GE    I 


nc 


1653   East   Main   Street 

Rochester,   New   Yc.k         U609       USA 

(716)   482  -  OJOO  -  Ptione 

(716)   288  -  5989  -  Fax 


268 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


vein  of  humor  to  put  into  not  only  his  'last  will  and  testa- 
ment' but  in  the  very  end  of  it,  a  bit  of  humor  that  would 
be  quite  amusing  if  it  were  not  so  serious  to  me  in  its 
results.    I  wish  you  had  not  spoken  to  me  of  this." 


i 


!     ; 


CHAPTER    XLVllI. 

"ll'licn   ill    thy  diwiiiiing  moons  like  these  shall  shine 

again, 
And  daylight  beaming  proi-e  thy  dreams  are  vain, 
Wilt  thou  not,  relenting,  for  thine  absent  lover  sigh, 
In  thy  heart  eonseiiting  to  a  prayer  gone  by?" 

Edward,  too,  had  that  day  received  an  important  letter. 
It  was  from  his  sister,  Beatrice.  She  had  much  to  teU  him 
of  all  the  family,  each  memlx.'r  coming  in  for  a  small 
notice,  with  much  of  the  rest  devoted  to  P)ill,  but  what  in- 
terested Edward  most  was  what  I'eatrice  said  of  an  old 
maid  aunt,  who  was  then  visiting  at  his  home  in  New 
York.  The  letter,  referring  to  the  aunt,  said :  "Aunt  Sa- 
mantha  is  here.  She  came  up  from  Kentucky  a  few  days 
after  you  went  away.  She  is  just  as  queer  as  ever,  always 
fussing  about  family  trees  and  'coats  of  arms'  and  'es- 
cutcheons,' and  1  don't  know  what  all  that  is  odd.  She 
says  we  were  once  a  great  family  in  England.  I  am  sat- 
isfied with  our  present  family.  She  made  me  use  her 
writing  paper.  She  says  what  is  the  good  of  having  a 
'coat  of  arms'  without  wearing  it.  'It'  is  one  of  aunt's 
jokes;  she  calls  it  'it,'  then  laughs  and  explains  it:  'coat — 
wear  it.  See?  Ha,  ha.'  She  is  old  and  childish,  so  we 
all  trv  to  humor  her,  but  really.  Ed,  she  says  this  is  our 
coat  of  arms.  She  has  the  longest  list  of  names.  Why, 
she  can  run  back  for  generations,  and  has  old  pafKTS, 
books  and  things  to  prove  all  she  says.     We  often  ,.jk 

269 


L    I 


fc  t 


I 


i. 


f 

'V 

1 

i 

iJ 

2/0 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


i 


1  ■■  '■ 


vvliat  j^oud  is  all  this,  and  she  laughs  and  sa)  s :  '(Jli,  it's 
no  trouble  to  nic,  and  it  may  come  useful  some  time :  we 
never  know.'  Say,  Ed,  you  have  no  idea  of  all  the  fuss 
the  papers  are  just  now  makint^  over  you  and  the  Count, 
who  rescued  that  English  girl.  Why,  one  of  them  !iad 
you  all  ])ictured  out.  You  were  fighting  five  men  at  once, 
while  the  Count,  who  had  just  killed  two  bandits,  was  sit- 
ting there  watching  you.  Ed,  they  were  wood  cuts,  and 
if  you  looked  just  a  little  bit  like  your  picture  I  would  dis- 
own you.  Everybody  is  asking  me  how  you  came  to  be 
there,  in  the  bandit  country.  1  tell  them  all  I  know ;  that 
you  had  gone  to  Milan  to  visit  Count  Drasco,  and  when 
they  ask  win'  you  and  the  Count  were  minstrels,  I  say :  I 
guess  it  was  because  you  wanted  to  see  the  country  of  the 
bandits,  and  thought  the  safest  way  to  go  w^as  as  minstrels. 
Now,  there,  Ed,  wasn't  tha^  a  brilliant  idea  of  mine?  Bill 
says  he  couldn't  have  thought  of  it  himself. 

"The  girls  say:  'The  first  thing  you  know,  that  brother 
of  yours  will  lo^e  his  heart  to  that  English  girl.'  Ed, 
really  now,  is  she  as  beautiful  as  all  the  papers  say?  \''our 
New  York  girls  are  getting  real  jealous  of  her  already. 
Miss  Kittie — you  know^  who  I  mean — asked  me  yester- 
day: 'Beatrice,  whei'  is  your  brother  Edward  coming 
home?  Wasn't  his  ig  radier  sudden?'  Say,  Ed.  you 
should  have  heard  Kit  ask  the  question.  S'""/^  was  very 
serious!  She  called  you  'Edward.'  Think,  Ed,  of  Kittie 
calling  you  'Edward.'  She  acted  as  though  your  going 
were  any  of  her  affair.  Oh,  when  are  you  coming  home? 
You  have  been  gone  two  ages !  Ed,  when  you  were  'as- 
sassinated' we  all  cried  for  a  week :  then  we  found  it 
wasn't  you,  but  the  cry  did  us  good.  You  know,  we  girls 
have  to  crv  so  much  each  vear,  anvhow.  Now  I  will  not 
have  to  weep  for  two  years  to  come.  So  you  see  what  we 
think  of  our  big,  'giant  killer'  brother.     Helen,  when  she 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


-71 


•(Jli,  it*s 
inic ;  \vc 
the  fuss 
LJ  Count, 
lem  had 
at  once, 
was  sit- 
uts,  and 
A\\d  dvj,- 
ne  to  bo 
>\v ;  that 
id  when 
i  say  :  I 
■y  of  tlie 
linstrels. 
le?    Bill 

brother 
-1;  Ed, 
'?  Your 
already. 
'  yester- 
coming 
Ed,  you 
:as  very 
>f  Kittie 
ir  going 
T  home  ? 
.-ere  'as- 
oiind  it 
we  girls 
will  not 
A- hat  we 
hen  she 


reads  now,  gets  down  her  book,  and  it"s  all  about  "Ivl.  the 
Giant  Killer.'  Jack'  plays  no  part  any  more.  Say,  Ed, 
just  for  fun,  give  my  love  to  my  new  sister,  i  always  was 
a  tease,  so  you  nnist  forgive  me  this.  Here  is  Aunt  Sa- 
mantha.  who  semis  so  nianv  messages  t:>  vou  thai  if  1 
wnUe  them  all  out  you  would  grow  tired  reading  them. 
\'ou  know,  Ed.  she  is  very  rich.  Father  says  she  has 
spent  thousands  of  dollars  tracing  out  oiir  familw  iJili 
>^a\s  it's  hard  to  tell  whether  she  has  been  rutuiing  a 
nursery  or  the  timber  business;  at  any  rate.  'Trees'  have 
figured  largely  in  her  life.  You  should  see  her  rhmu  ;  siie 
has  family  trees  from  the  size  of  this  sheet  on  which  I  am 
writing  up  to  one  that  covers  half  of  one  side  of  her  room. 
'Yes,  aim:,  I  will  tell  him.'  vShe  wants  me  to  say  she 
washes  you  wfe  here ;  that  she  knows  you  would  1k>  in- 
terested in  her  .ife  work.  I  don't  believe  she  thinks  we 
take  much  interest  in  it.  Don't  tell  her  I  said  so.  but  she 
is  right':  we  don't.  There  are  too  many  other  things  of 
importance  to  think  of.  'What  is  it,  auntie?'  What  do 
you  think.  Ed;  she  has  just  made  me  promise  that  I  will 
send  you  a  book  in  which  our  family  is  shown  as  running 
back  to  William  the  Conqueror.  She  says  she  had  a  man 
at  work  on  it  for  two  years.  Most  of  that  time  he  speiU 
m  England.  When  you  write,  Ed,  you  must  make  a  'fuss' 
over  it.  1  know  it  will  please  the  dear  old  soul.  It  may 
bore  you,  but  she  is  old.,  and.  as  it  is  the  sole  object  of  her 
life,  we  nuist  l(X)k  over  it  in  her." 

And  Edward  iiad  received  the  book.  He  hardly  gave  it 
a  passing  glance.  Beatrice  was  right.  It  was  a  bore  t<3 
him  ;  but  he  would  write  some  nice  things  to  tell  Aunt 
Samantha  and  thank  her  for  her  remembering  him. 

It  was  time  now  that  he  should  ma..^  his  promised  call. 
He  wished  it  was  over.  He  was  afraid  of  himself— afraid 
he  miglit  forget  that  Xita  was  another's,  and  sav  thiuL'-s 


M 


SV  I 


I  \ 


,  il 


272 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


f 


"  J! 


he  would  regret.  No,  he  would  talk  only  on  the  common- 
places, and  nut  ris.k  dangerous  ground.  Did  lover  ever 
talk  only  common] -lace  in  the  presence  of  her  whom  he 
loved,  even  though  he  knew  she  was  another's?  Nut 
when  that  lover  knew  that  he  was  the  one  loved. 

Never  had  he  seen  Nita  so  beautiful  as  she  was  that 
night.  Her  dress,  the  surroundings,  the  light  shaded  to 
bring  out  all  the  charm  of  coloring,  her  manner  toward 
him,  everything  went  to  make  him  forget  ^11  else  than  that 
he  was  completely  enchanted.  He  forgot  commonplace 
the  moment  he  entered  her  presence. 

"And  is  my  fair  lady  waiting  to  be  rescued  again?" 

"For  a  whole  hour  has  she  waited^  and  it  has  seemed 
very  long  to  her." 

"Her  knight  wished  not  to  manifest  unseemly  haste." 

"Unseemly  haste  can  never  be  charged  to  her  knight." 
And  thus  they  ran  on  smilingly. 

"Mr.  Dcliertbcrn,  yon  have  never  told  me  why  you  and 
the  Count  played  so  well  the  part  cf  knight  errants  of  old 
to  me,  a  stranger  to  you." 

"And  are  you  a  stranger  to  me?" 

"I  was  then.     You  had  never  even  seen  me  before." 

"My  counterpart  may  have  seen  you,  and  I  but  took  his 
place,  perhaps." 

"If  so,  you  have  done  him  credit." 

"Tell  me  again  of  my  counterpart.    What  was  he  like?" 

"I  have  told  you  that  I  could  not  describe  him." 

"And  yet  you  saw  him  ?" 

"I  saw  him,  and  I  did  not  see  him.  We  w-ere  together 
in  the  depths  of  an  Egyptian  tomb.  The  surroundings 
were  so  strange  and  weird  that  I  could  think,  at  the  time, 
of  naught  but  their  very  weirdness." 

"And  did  he  see  you,  behind  your  veil?" 

"What,  Mr.  DeHertbern,  can  vou  know  of  the  veil?" 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


273 


oiiimon- 
ver  ever 
,honi  he 
s?    Not 

vas  that 
uided  to 
•  toward 
han  that 
lonplace 

in?" 
.  seemed 

laste." 
knight." 

you  and 
ts  of  old 


[ore." 
took  his 


lelike?" 


together 
nmdings 
the  time, 


veil?" 


Edward  had  forgotten  the  part  he  was  playing,  but  he 
tried  to  correct  the  misstep. 

"Were  you  not  veiled  in  that  terrible  climate?" 

"Oh,  yes ;  but  not  in  the  tomb." 

"Tell  me  more  of  that  meeting.  Fur  my  counterpart's 
sake,  I  would  know  all." 

"There  is  but  little  to  relate  that  I  have  not  told  you." 

"Vou  have  said  thai  uhile  you  had  no  remem])rance  of 
the  face,  yet  you  have  sought  to  find  it  again.  How  did 
you  hope  to  find  that  of  which  you  had  no  remembrance?" 

"Ah,  Mr.  Deliertbern,  I  know  not,  yet  would  1  seek  it." 

"Will  you  forgive  me  if  I  ask  why  you  should  seek  that 
face,  when  it  can  never  be  to  you  more  than  a  face^  since 
you  yourself  are  another's?" 

"Mr.  DeHertbern,  you  speak  in  riddles.  I  am  not  an- 
other's." 

"You  are  not  another's?  Why,  your  father  has  told  me 
that  you  are  to  be  the  wife  of  a  countryman  of  yours." 

"Poor  Clarence  is  no  more,  lie  met  the  fate  which 
you  so  nearly  met." 

"And  was  it  Lord  Aglionby,  the  unfortunate  young 
man?" 

"It  was  he.  Pie,  too,  sought  to  rescue  me.  as  I  have 
learned.  And,  lest  you  think  me  unkind  to  seem  so  soon 
to  forget  him,  I  will  tell  you  that  it  would  have  been  a 
union  without  a  heart.  In  England  the  woman  too  often 
has  no  choice." 

Edward  now  felt  that  he  could  reveal  himself,  and  tell 
her  that  there  was  no  counterpart. 

"And  tell  me  again,  what  if  you  could  meet  and  know 
that  face  you  met  in  the  tomb?" 

"I  have  a  thousand  times  asked  myself  that  same  ques- 
tion, and  can  find  no  answer,  and  yet  have  ever  sought  to 
find  it !" 


if 

i 


I' 
1^ 


274 


MV    FRIEND    BILL. 


i'-'Mm 


i 


M ; 


"if  I  could  reveal  to  you  the  mystery,  might  1  claim  the 
reward?" 

"I  do  not  understand — 'mystery?'  'reward?'  No,  I 
cannot  fathom  your  meaning." 

"You  told  me  once  that  you  saw  in  the  minstrel  that 
face.  You  saw  aright,  for,  Nita,  it  was  my  face  you  saw 
in  the  Eg}'ptian  tomb !" 

"Oh,  cruel,  cruel  fate!"  exclaimed  Nita,  her  face  almost 
white  with  the  excitement  of  the  revelation.  She  had 
sought  for  a  year  to  find  a  face  which,  when  found, 
brought  her  only  grief.  Edward  could  not  understand 
the  cause  of  her  exclamation,  but  waited. 

"Oh,  Edward,  what  can  I  do?  The  fate  that  botmd  me 
to  one  I  did  not  love  bars  my  heart  from  where  it  would 
go.  I  can  never  know  you  save  as  a  friend  who  has 
risked  his  life  to  save  mine,  a  friend  for  whom  I  would 
willingly  give  my  life.  You  cannot  understand.  The  wiH 
that  bound  me  to  Lord  Aglionby  also  says  I  may  never  be 
yours,  for  you  are  an  American,  and  I  can  never  marry 
an  American."  And  to  show  to  him  how  fate  had  shut 
them  out  from  each  other,  she  went  and  brought  the  will, 
and  they  read  together  the  fatal  part. 

"But  see."  said  Edward,  "this  codicil." 

"Yes,  I  have  seen  it,  and  aside  from  the  impossible  there 
is  nothing  in  it." 

"Wait,"  said  he,  as  he  thought  of  Aunt  Samantha's 
book,  which  he  had  with  him.  "I  have  this  day  received 
a  letter  and  a  book  from  my  sister.  The  impossible  may 
be  made  possible.  We  will  see."  And  together  the/  sat 
and  looked  over  that  IxDok  as  no  one  had  ever  before 
looked  it  over. 

"Why.  there,"  said  Nita,  "at  the  very  first  page  is  our 
coat  of  arms.  And  here,  see,  name  after  name  which  are 
familiar  ones  to  me. 


claim  the 

No,    I 

strel  that 
I  you  saw 

ce  ahnost 

She  had 

Ml  found, 

ulerstand 

)oinid  me 
it  would 
who  has 

.  I  would 
The  wiH 
never  be 

er  marry 
had  shut 

:  the  will, 

ible  there 

imantha's 
'  received 
sihle  may 
•  the  '  sat 
er  before 


MV    i'RlliXU    LULL. 


2/5 


'"Cumc,  father,  sec  this  wuudcriul  huok  that  Hdward 
has  received." 

As  Mr.  Alkyn  came  in,  the  i;rcalcst  surprise  was  to 
hear  his  dauyiitcr  caliinj^-  Mr.  Ucllcrthcru  *'Kd\vard,"  but 
when  he  saw  the  book  and  realized  what  it  contained,  he 
Could  scarcely  believe  so  wonderful  a  thini;'  could  be. 

lie  saw  that  JJurke  had  never  written  or  compiled  one 
more  accurate. 

It  was  fully  agreed  llial  there  was  no  bar  now.  Edward 
might  claim  his  "queen."  and  Xita  need  search  no  longer 
in  vain  for  the  "face"  she  had  seen  in  the  tomb. 

Taking  up  Xita's  guitar,  iMlward  sang  the  one  chorus 
he  had  left  out  the  night  of  the  last  "concert"  in  the  ban- 
dit camp : 

"Xita,  Juanita,  let  iiic  liiii^rr  by  thy  side; 
Nita,  Juanita,  be  my  o:cn  fair  bride." 


i 


ili 


r  ? 


i  1 

'..      ! 

^    ! 


i    1 


ge  is  our 
,vhich  are 


t         I: 


i  '\\ 


CIIAITHR   XLIX. 

The  spacious  Dcflcrtbcni  mansion  7<'as  far  too  small,  and 
the  greatest  hotel  in  the  city  xeas  engaged  for  the 
occasion. 

Now  that  every  c)l)stacle  has  heeii  removed,  and  Ed- 
ward and  Anita  are  hai)i)y  in  each  otlier's  love,  you  will 
scarcely  wish  to  go  with  them  hack  to  the  Alleyn  ancestral 
halls  in  Enii:lan(l,  where  they  were  quietly  married,  or  to 
follow  them  across  to  New  York,  where  was  j^iven  to 
them  a  royal  welcome,  or  to  read  of  the  many  pretty 
thing^s  said  of  Edward's  heautiful  hride.  Suffice  it  that 
all  these  thino^s  happened  in  their  order.  The  reception 
j^iven  hy  the  Detlertherns  in  honor  of  their  new  daughter 
was  an  event  which  New  York  has  not  yet  forgotten,  as 
no  reception  in  this  city  of  great  affairs  has  equaled  it  in 
magnificence.  Nothing  was  talked  of  for  a  month  hefpre 
in  the  higher  social  circles  hut  the  DeHerthcrn  reception, 
and  it  long  remained  a  theme  of  general  comment. 

A  description  of  its  grandeur  would  take  a  pen  more 
used  than  mine  to  such  work. 

The  spacious  Dellertbern  mansion  was  far  too  small, 
and  the  greatest  hotel  in  the  city  was  engaged  for  the  oc- 
casion. Florists  and  decorators  were  many  days  at  work 
in  turning  this  great  house  into  a  veritable  palace  of  flow- 
ers. The  best  orchestras  were  engaged  to  furnish  the 
music.  The  guests,  even  though  so  us^Qd  to  the  beautiful 
in  elaborate  entertainment,  had  never  seen  anything  of  the 

276 


MY    FRIEND   BILL. 


^17 


^inall,  and 
'(/  for  the 


and  Ed- 
.  you  will 
I  ancestral 
■icd,  or  to 

g"iven  to 
my  pretty 
ice  it  that 

reception 

daughter 
gotten,  as 
laled  it  in 
ith  he  fore 
reception, 
t. 
pen  more 

too  small. 
or  the  oc- 
s  at  work 
c  of  flow- 
rnish   the 

heautifnl 
ing  of  the 

276 


kind,  for  nothing  on  so  vast  a  scale  liad  hefore  heen  at- 
tempted in  America.  (Uiests  werr  there  from  almost 
every  large  city  in  the  land.  During  the  whole  iiight  I 
felt  as  one  turned  loose  in  fairyland.  It  was  the  first 
reception  of  any  kind  I  had  ever  seen.  I  was  at  a  loss  to 
know  how  to  fully  enjoy  it.  The  night  the  *'.\ctor"  took 
me  to  the  theatre  1  was  hewildered  bv  the  "diamonds" 
worn  by  the  "fairies"  on  the  stage.  To  me  the  jewels 
were  real,  as  was  the  play,  hut  the  Actor,  far  t(H)  practical, 
said:  '"Those  illusive  hauhles  are  hut  glass — and  Pitts- 
burg glass  at  that."  lie  called  it  "glahs."  I'.ut  lure  I 
wandered  from  room  to  ronni.  from  tlnor  to  tloor.  and 
back  again,  and  wherever  1  went  diamonds  dazzled  my 
eyes.  diamonds,  whole  mines  (^f  them,  it  seemed, 
sparkled  everywhere  that  night,  and  real  ones,  tot),  for  Hill 
told  me.  "These  people  do  not  need  to  resort  to  shams. 
"Why,"  said  he.  "do  you  know,  Rube,  that  the  wealth  rep- 
resented here  to-night  would  pay  the  national  del)t?" 
When  1  told  the  Anarchist,  at  the  boarding-house,  what 
Bill  had  said,  he  replied  bitterly: 

"If  the  Government  had  to  depend  uixjn  this  wealth,  the 
debt  woidd  not  be  reduced  nuich,  for  by  the  time  these 
rich  men  were  through  'swearing  otY'  there  would  Ik'  but 
little  left."  Tom  was  very  severe.  I  did  not  iK'lieve  him 
— then. 

Wherever  1  turned,  in  whatever  room,  hallway  or  i)ar- 
lor,  soft,  sweet  nuisic  seemed  to  till  the  very  air  with  a 
joy  which  1  had  never  dreamed  was  meant  for  earth. 
Music,  nuisic  everywhere,  but  not  a  player  to  be  seen. 
How  different  to  the  dances  at  llighniont.  where  the  one 
prominent  personage  was  the  fiddler;  or.  if  at  a  wedding, 
he  might  possibly  share  the  honors  with  the  bride — if  she 
were  pretty. 

Everv  florist  in  Xew  York  had  contributed  his  stock  of 


(  . 


(      ■  ! 


278 


MV    FRIEND    HILL. 


^wf 


rosos  aiul  rare  llDWc-rs,  l)iu  the  supply  was  lu  nu-aj^rc,  aiul 
other  cities  were  called  upon  to  comi)lete  the  decoration, 
(irottoes  of  roses,  howcrs  of  palms,  walls  festooned  witli 
orciiids — tile  wliole  one  bewildering  sight  i>f  rare  beauty. 

"W  hat  of  tile  people  who  were  tliere?"  Ah,  1  scarcely 
made  a  note  of  them,  save  as  they  blocked  my  way  through 
Fairyland.  It  seemed  that  I  coidd  l...ve  lived  on  forever, 
as  in  some  "enchanted  palace;"  but  morning  came,  tiie 
lights  were  extinguished  and  the  guests  had  all  departeil. 
and  I  went  out  and  took  up  again  the  burdens  of  real  life. 
Hut  the  remembrance  of  that  night  still  haunts  me,,  aiul 
hlls  me  with  a  pleasure  untold.  The  llowers,  the  nuisic, 
the  diamonds  that  glittered  on  beautiful  women,  and, 
above  all,  was  I  impressed  with  Ivlward's  bride,  whom  I 
had  seen  but  once  before  since  her  arrival.  Her  beauty 
was  so  rare  that  other  women  forgot  to  envy  in  their  ad- 
miration of  her.  Tall  and  with  a  bearing  that  seemed,  to 
my  notion,  regal,  and  yet  so  gentle  and  simple  in  manner 
that  she  won  every  heart.  C^nce  during  the  evening, 
when  l>ill  and  I  were  together,  he  asked:  "Ruin?,  did  you 
ever  see  a  face  that  reminded  yt»u  of  Edward's  bride?" 

"X(\"  I  replied,  "and  never  expect  to." 

"Well,  said  he,  "she  has  features  that  remind  me  of 
Anita  Leighton."' 

'What!"  I  exclaimed,  "your  Xita  of  Ilighmont?  Your 
imagination  must  indeed  be  vivid  to-night.  P.ill.  Whv. 
that  little  mountain  lass  could  never  have  hoped  to  become 
the  queen  we  see  to-night." 

"You  mistake  my  meaning.  T  l)ut  spoke  of  a  slight 
resemblance,  and  not  that  it  could  be  Xita  Lcicliton — 
only  that  the  bride  reminds  me  of  her." 

I  could  not  but  think  how  true  it  is  that  we  never  en- 
tirely forget  our  first  love,  and  in  after  years  attrilnite  to 
her  rare  qualities  of  beautv  in  face  and  character. 


MV    FKIKaD   bill. 


279 


'.'iL^re,  ami 
c'coration. 
>iicil  witii 
re  Ix'auty. 

I  scarcely 
y  thnnigh 

II  forever, 
:anie.  the 
departed. 

I  real  life. 
.  me,  and 
he  music, 
neii,  and, 
.  wiuMii  I 
er  beauty 

their  ad- 
eemed, to 

II  manner 
eveninjif. 

'.  did  you 
bride?" 

1(1  me  of 

:?  Your 
1.  Why. 
o  become 

a  sli.q-lit 
M^q-Jiton — 


The  echoes  of  the  Dellertbern  receiUi.'U  ran^  up  and 
down  throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of  ihr  laml. 
Ministers  took  it  as  a  text,  and  preached  against  the  ex- 
travagance of  wealth.  The  newspapers  condenuied  it  as 
ostentatious  di.splay  of  riches  and  as  setting  the  poor 
against  the  wealthy  class.  Nothing  was  talked  of  at  our 
table  for  a  whole  week,  i  tried  to  defviid  it.  but  was  all 
alone  in  the  defense. 

"Do  you  know,"  I  asked,  "that  all  those  beautiful  n«>w- 
ers  were  distributed  among  the  hospitals  and  sent  to  the 
p(M)r  of  the  city?" 

"And  do  you  think,"  asked  Tom,  "that  tlk-  po<>r  ap- 
preciate flowers  cast  to  them  as  no  longer  of  u^e  to  the 
millionaire?  It  but  mak-s  them  feel  the  depth  «.f  tiieir 
poverty  to  know  that  what  would  be  life  to  them  can  be 
thrown  away  as  useless.  They  feel  that  the  Cod  who 
made  us  all  is  unjust  to  give  to  the  rich  untold  luxury  and 
deprive  them  of  the  bare  necessities  of  existence,  and  a 
display  such  as  this  reception  but  intensifies  that  feeling 
and  embitters  their  lives.  No,  my  friend,  these  |X)or,  who 
dearly  love  flowers,  who  would  go  miles  for  a  simple  w  ild 
blossom,  would  trample  under  their  feet  the  rarest  orchid 
cast  to  them  by  the  rich." 

I  learned  later  that  Mr.  Dellertbern  had  kept  an  ac- 
curate account  of  the  money  spent  on  this  occasion,  and 
had  quietly  distributed  in  chanty  a  like  amount.  For  this 
the  world  gave  him  no  credit,  for  the  world  did  not  know 
of  it. 


Jf 
>  i 


t* 


i    . 


1 


never  en- 

:ributc  to 


L^ifiMli 


1 1  in 


CHAPTER  L. 


Tllli;  DANCE  IN  TIIIv   BARN. 


Oh,  the  joy  of  that  jiighi!  It  comes  back  to  me  as  an 
opiate  dream. 
"(,)h,  Mr.  Ruben,  my  new  sister  knows  the  most 
stories !"  began  Helen  one  evening  shortly  after  the  recep- 
tion, as  Bill  and  I  were  entering  the  DeHertberns'  home. 
"Yes,  and  she  never  gets  tired  telling  me  everything  I 
want  to  know  about.  She  is  just  like  you  and  Tousin 
Wallie.  She  used  to  live  in  a  wee  bit  of  a  town  like  you 
did,  when  she  was  little  like  I  am,  and,  Mr.  Ruben,  her 
stories  sound  just  like  yours.  Her  little  town  was  in  the 
mountains,  and  had  a  creek,  and  one  street  and  a  tavern, 
and  she  told  me  about  two  little  girls  "hat  had  two  big 
dogs  and  played  with  rag  dolls,  and  hadn't  any  nurse. 
Oh,  ain't  it  jolly  to  have  a  new  sister  who  knows  so  much 
and  likes  to  tell  it?  Oh,  Mr.  Ruben,  when  she  comes  in 
the  parlor  to-night  you  must  get  her  to  tell  about  a  dance 
she  went  to  in  somebody's  barn.  She  comes  in  the  parlor 
now.  since  the  reception,  and  you  will  see  her  to-night. 
Brother  Edward  said  that  new  brides  don't  come  in  the 
parlor  to  see  people  before  they  have  receptions — that's 
why  you  didn't  see  her  before.  For  a  long  while  Edward 
and  my  new  sister  didn't  see  anybody  but  each  other, 
even  when  other  people  were  around,  too;  but  they  are 
now  like  a  smart  babv.  Belle  savs.     Belle  is  mv  nurse. 


Ui 


ic  as  ait 

lie  most 
le  recep- 
s'  home, 
^tiling  I 
Toiisin 
like  you 
bcii,  lier 
IS  in  the 
L  tavern, 
two  big 
y  nurse, 
so  much 
onies  in 
a  dance 
le  parlor 
:o-night. 
e  in  the 
;— that's 
Edward 
li  other, 
licv  are 
/  nurse, 
280 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


281 


what  papa  brought  from  Kentucky.  Her  mother  was  a 
real  slave  that  papa's  uncle  used  to  own.  Yes,  liellc  says 
they  are  like  a  new  baby,  that  is,  just  begiiming-  to  'no- 
tice.' Now  mind,  Mr.  Rui)en,  you  mustn't  tell  her  I  told 
you  anything.  Sister  iJeatrice  says  little  girls  should  not 
tell  things,  but  you  don't  count,  do  you,  Mister  Rul)en? 
No,  you  don't  count."  'Twas  always  so.  I  don't  count 
for  anything,  and  thus  hear  many  things  1  love  to  listen  to. 

During  the  evening  Edward  and  his  bride  came  into 
the  parlor.  We  were  introduced,  but  I  am  sure  the  bride 
took  so  little  note  of  us  that  she  could  not  have  heard 
our  names  even,  but  later  on  she  became  so  entertaining 
that  wc  all  stepped  talking  to  listen  to  her  tell  of  the  many 
places  and  peoples  she  had  seen. 

"Tell  some  of  the  stories  you  told  me,  won't  you,  my 
nev.    "ster?" 

"Now,  Helen,"  said  Beatrice,  "you  know  what  I  said 
about  little  children  !'' 

''Y^es,  I  know;  but  T  don't  want  vou  to  hear  me.  I 
want  sister  to  tell  about  when  she  was  a  little  girl  and 
lived  in  the  little  town  in  the  big  mountains  and  went  to 
the  dance  in  that  new  barn.  ( )h,  it  A-as  so  very  funny. 
Now,  do  please  tell  us  about  it,  won't  you,  sister?" 

"Yes,  yes,  Helen ;  come  over  and  sit  by  me,  and  T  will 
tell  you  all  about  that  dance !" 

"No,  I  don't  mean  that.  I  want  you  to  tell  all  of  us 
about  it." 

"Helen,  let  me  tell  you  of  the  little  girls  T  saw  away 
down  in  Eg\'pt.  Tlie  gentlemen  will  not  care  to  hear 
about  a  simple  country  dance." 

"Y^es,  they  will,  for  they  used  to  live  in  the  country,  too. 
Don't  you  want  to  hear  it,  Tousin  Wallie?  I  know  Mis- 
ter Ruben  does." 

We  all  insisted,  and  the  story  began.     She  told  it  as 


i' 


I* 


1  I 


r  1 


',   a. 


2S2 


MY  FRIEND   BILL. 


though  entirely  for  Helen's  ears,  but  the  rest  were  a  most 
attentive  audience. 

"I  once  lived  in  a  little  mountain  village  so  far  removed 
from  the  outside  world  that  all  the  amusements  we  had 
were  the  simple  pleasures  we  could  get  up  among  our- 
selves. In  the  spring  we  would  visit  the  sugar  camps 
and  pull  the  'taffy'  made  from  boiling  down  the  sap  that 
came  from  the  great  maple  trees.  It  was  rare  sport,  and 
much  we  enjoyed  it.  In  the  summer  we  would  have  pic- 
nics away  off  in  some  quiet  valley  in  the  mountains,  and 
return  home  laden  with  wild  flowers — very  tired,  but, 
Helen,  we  were  very  happy.  When  the  summer  was  gone 
and  the  leaves  of  the  forest  had  begun  to  turn  all  colors 
of  red  and  yellow,  and  when  the  birds  had  started  on  their 
long  flight  to  their  winter  homes,  we  found  other  amuse- 
ments— the  apple  cuttings-* " 

"What's  that?"  broke  in  Helen,  whose  large  eyes 
showed  in  their  brightness  how  deeply  she  was  interested. 

"Why,  Helen,  in  the  country  there  are  great  orchards 
of  apples.  The  trees  almost  break  down  with  their  heavy 
loads  of  fruit.  Early  in  the  season  there  are  a  great  many 
windfalls " 

"Windfall!"  exclaimed  Helen,  in  surprise.  "Why, 
sister,  that  is  what  papa  called  Mister  Ruben.  I  didn't 
know  men  were  apples.  Sometimes  a  great  man  is  called 
a  'peach,'  but  I  never  knew  he  was  an  apple  Ijefore." 

"Helen,  you  are  a  very  funny  little  girl.  No,  the  'wind- 
falls' I  mean  are  the  apples  that  are  blown  off  the  trees  by 
the  wind." 

"Oh.  I  see."  said  Helen,  satisfied  with  the  explanation. 

"These  apples  are  picked  up  by  the  farmer.  Some  of 
them  he  hauls  away  in  wagons  to  the  mill,  where  they  are 
ground  and  the  juice  is  pressed  out  of  them.  This  juice 
is  what  they  call  cider.     The    fanner    has    it    put    into 


to 
; 


*e  a  most 

removed 
;  we  had 
ong  our- 
ir  camps 

sap  that 
port,  and 
liave  pic- 
ilns,  and 
•ed,  but, 
.vas  gone 
dl  colors 

on  their 
r  anuise- 

•ge  eyes 
terested. 
orchards 
!ir  heavy 
^at  many 

"Why, 
I  didn't 
is  called 
e." 

e  'wind- 
trees  by 

nation. 
Some  of 
they  are 
lis  juice 
>iit    into 


ifi 


MV    FRIEND    BILL. 


2S3 


barrels  and  keeps  part  of  it  tt)  drink  in  the  winter,  it  is 
his  wine.  More  of  it  is  hoileii  down  in  great  copper- 
lined  kettles,  and  when  it  is  thick,  almost  like  syrup,  api)les 
that  have  been  cut  into  quarters  are  filled  in  to  make  a 
marmalade,  which  is  called  'apple  butter.'  TIkmi  there  is 
another  use  to  which  the  fruit  is  put.  The  apples  are 
pared,  or,  as  they  call  it  in  the  country,  'jx-'eled,"  (iiiartcred 
and  set  in  the  sun,  and  that  is  how  they  get  the  drieil 
apples.  But  now  as  to  the  'apple  cuttings.'  Some 
fanner  who  likes  to  see  the  young  people  have  a  'good 
time'  sends  word  (he  does  not  write  a  note  of  invitation) 
to  everybody  to  come  to  his  'ai)ple  cutting.'  This  'word' 
is  all  that  is  needed,  and  the  young  folks  come  for  miles 
around,  until  the  house  is  full.  An  'ai)ple  cutting'  is  one 
of  the  few  places  where  'old  maids'  and  (juiet  young  men 
are  most  welcome,  for  they  do  the  work  while  the  young 
folks  play.  \\'hen  the  'old  maids'  and  sedate  young  men 
have  finished  the  work,  everything  is  cleared  away,  and  a 
bountiful  sup{x^r  is  spread." 

"Do  the  'old  maids'  get  to  eat  at  the  'first  table'  ?"  broke 
in  Helen  again. 

"I  am  afraid  not,  Helen,  for  by  this  lime  their  im- 
portance for  the  evening  is  over.  After  the  supper  the 
'fiddler' " 

"What's  that?" 

"Why,  Helen,  in  the  country  the  man  who  plays  the 
violin  is  called  a  'fiddler.'  Well,  this  man  gets  up  on  a 
barrel  or  some  high  place,  and  not  only  plays,  but  calls 
off  the  diff'erent  sets  for  the  dancing,  and  often  it  is  time 
for  breakfast  when  the  ycHing  |x?ople  get  home. 

"Then  they  have  'corn  huskings.'  which  is  almost  like 
the  'apple  cuttings,'  only  that  all  the  young  |)eople  work 
hard,  each  one  of  the  bovs  hunting  for  the  'red  ear,'  and 


4^'    i 


)- 


ii 


i  ■■ 


284 


MY    FRIEND   BILL. 


eacli  one  of  the  girls  wishing  that  her  young  man  will 
find  it." 

"Why  does  she  wish  he  will  find  it?"  asked  Helen. 

At  this  the  bride  blushed  faintly  as  she  replied:  "Why, 
Helen,  the  young  man  who  finds  the  'red  ear'  gets  to  kiss 
his  girl." 

"Tousin  W'allie,  you  nuist  have  found  a  good  many 
'red  ears.'  " 

"Mamma,  mamma."  eried  Ueatrice.  "make  Helen  be 
quiet.     She  just  won't  let  sister  tell  the  story." 

"I  have  finished  the  story,  all  ])ut  the  'six'liing  matches,' 
sleighing  parties  and  school  exhibitions  which  they  have 
in  the  long  wmter  nights." 

"Why,  sister,  you  haven't  told  a  v.ord  about  that  dance 
in  the  barn !  That  was  the  very  story  they  all  wanted  to 
hear."  And  Helen  pleaded  so  hard  that  finally  the  bride 
began.  I  need  not  say  here  with  what  interest  1  drank 
in  every  word  of  the  recital  of  those  country  pleasures. 
Had  I  not  seen  them  all  at  Highmont?  But  to  hear  this 
great  lady  tell  of  them  as  a  part  of  her  life's  experience 
gave  to  them  a  zest  1  would  not  have  thought  ix)ssible. 
I  did  not  then  know  why.  but  Bill's  face  was  a  picture  to 
study.  He  seemed  not  to  be  present,  but  away  off  some- 
where. Was  he  thinking,  the  while,  that  he  and  Anita 
had  always  attended  those  pleasures  together;  of  how 
fast  he  worked  at  the  "corn  huskings"  to  find  that  "red 
ear."  and  of  the  reward  which  Anita  always  seemed  so 
willing  to  give  him?     JUu  to  the  story  of  the  daxck  ix 

THE   BARX. 

"A  farmer  who  had  built  a  large  barn  a  few  miles  from 
the  village  sent  Svord'  around  that  he  would  'dedicate'  it 
with  a  dance.  I  shall  never  forget  the  interest  we  took 
in  its  building.  Many  a  load  of  timber  the  young  men 
drew  for  nothing,  and    the    farmer's  wife  found  ready 


IslV    FRIEND   BILL. 


285 


man  will 

ck'ii. 

:   "Why, 

ts  to  kiss 

j(J  many 

Iclcn   be 

Hatches,' 
ley  have 

lat  (lance 
anted  to 
:he  bride 

I  drank 
'Icasures. 
liear  this 
:])crience 
I)ossible. 
icture  to 
»ff  some- 
id  Anita 

of  how 
hat  "red 
emed  so 

ANXK    IX 

les  from 
licate'  it 
we  took 
mg-  men 
id  readv 


hands  among-  the  girls  when  she  needed  extra  helj)  at  the 
'raising.'  The  interest  manifested  in  onr  rcxrent  recep- 
tion was  nothing  to  be  compared  to  tlie  great  preparation 
for  that  barn  dance.  The  stock  of  the  village  merchant 
was  taxed  to  its  utmost,  especially  the  ribl>on  department. 
Some  of  the  well-to-do  sent  away  to  the  city  for  finery — 
possibly  to  make  envious  the  less  fortunate  among  their 
sisters.  The  preacher  devoted  half  his  sermon  hours  for 
weeks  to  tell  how  very,  very  wicked  it  was  to  dance,  and 
especially  so  in  a  barn,  but  the  only  effect  on  the  younger 
portion  of  his  hearers  was  to  provoke  smiles.  The  night 
came  at  last.  Could  you  have  seen  the  vehicles  that  car- 
ried the  merry  party  to  that  barn  you  would  have 
laughed.  The  boy  who  took  me  came  in  a  farm  wagon 
drawn  by  a  mule."  (A  start  from  Rill,  who  seemed  to 
waken,  as  from  a  dream.)  "Could  you  have  seen  how 
he  was  'dressed'  you  would  have  thought  it  was  for  a  part 
in  a  burlesque  show.  But  I  knew  no  difference,  and  was 
happy.  The  preparation  the  fanner  had  made  was  on  a 
scale  never  before  seen  in  that  country.  Great  limbs  of 
cedar  covered  the  logs  or  beams,  wild  roses  hung  in 
festoons  along  the  sides  of  the  barn;  golden  rod— the 
whole  eighty  varieties,  it  seemed — covered  spaces  not 
filled  with  hollyhocks  and  sunflowers.  The  illumination 
was  so  brilliant  that  it  shone  out  into  the  night  for  miles 
in  every  direction  not  shut  out  by  the  hills.  He  had 
gathered  loads  of  pine  knots,  and,  placing  them  on  the 
four  sides  of  the  barn,  set  fire  to  them,  so  that  the  light 
dimmed  the  many  lard  lamps  burning  in  the  'ball-nx>m  * 

"All  the  fiddlers  in  the  country  were  there  that  night. 
Such  music  ( ?)  I  had  never  heard  until  I  went  to  Egvpt, 
Rut  what  cared  we  for  the  music !  Our  hearts  were  so 
light  that  we  could  waltz  even  though  the  fiddlers  played 
a  polka.     Oh.  the  joy  of  that  night!     It  comes  back  to 


4 


I 


11 


I 


t      ,.! 


i     \ 


286 


MY   FRIEND    BILL. 


'1  J  "i  i 


I  j- 1  ~ 


nie  as  an  opiate  dream !  And  yet  it  was  not  all  joy.  I 
remember  liow  scared  1  was  at  one  time.  A  vounir  man 
from  a  neii^diboring  villa.i^e  asked  me  for  a  waltz.  I  was 
alK>>  t  to  accept,  when  the  lioy  who  brought  me  whisiKTcd 
someihing  to  him,  and  tliey  went  out  together.  They 
were  gone  a  half  hour  when  the  boy  came  back,  and  such 
a  sight  he  was!  liis  eyes  were  almost  closed,  and  he 
looked  as  though  he  had  been  thrown  into  the  creek,  lie 
was  very  happy,  however,  as  he  told  me  the  young  man 
had  sent  word  that  he  had  reconsidered  his  invitation  to 
the  waltz. 

"It  mus  t  have  been  near  morning  when  we  left  the 
dance.  The  nude,  whether  from  standing  or  its  anxiety 
to  get  home  I  never  knew,  started  and  ran  as  I  have  never 
seen  a  rmile  run  before  or  since.  The  wagon  box  seemed 
a  thing  of  life  as  it  bounded  up  and  down.  Everything 
that  could  get  loose  we  left  strewn  along  the  road.  The 
boy  held  on  to  the  lines  and  I  held  on  to  the  boy,  whilst 
the  mule  held  the  middle  of  the  road,  until  we  had  reached 
a  point  half  way  to  the  village,  when  it  must  have  thought 
of  a  nearer  way  home,  and  started  across  the  fields,  down 
a  steep  hill,  at  the  bottom  of  which  it  found  a  deep  ditch. 
Across  this  it  jumped,  but  the  wagon  not  being  so  light, 
ctopj>ed  short,  and  for  aught  I  know  is  there  to  this  day." 

"Oh,  Tousin  Wallie,  ain't  that  a  funny  story!"  From 
the  look  on  Bill's  face  I  knew  he  thought  it  anything  but 
funnv.  I  also  knew  that  this  great  ladv  was  none  other 
than  our  own  village  belle,  Anita  Leighton ! 

"Sister,  where  is  that  boy  now?  Does  he  live  at  the 
little  village  yet?" 

"No,  Helen,  soon  after  this  he  went  away  to  the  great 
city  and  forgot  all  about  me.  I  left  the  little  town  and 
have  never  heard  of  him  since." 

"Oh,  what  would  he  think  if  he  could  see  you  now — 


iMY   FRIEND   BILL. 


1  joy.  I 
ing"  man 
.  I  was 
liisiKTcd 
*.  They 
111(1  sucli 
and  he 
ek.  He 
ing  man 
tat  ion  to 


left  the 

anxiety 

ve  never 

:  seemed 


cr 


erythin 
A.  The 
y,  whilst 
reached 
thought 
Is,  down 
ep  ditch, 
so  lig'ht, 
lis  day." 
'  From 
liing  but 
ne  other 


287 


wouldn't  he  be  sorry  he  forgot  you?"     Anita  only  smiled 
as  she  and  Edward  bid  us  good  night  and  left  the  room. 

I  had  never  known  Bill  so  quiet  as  he  was  on  the  way 
back  to  our  rooms  that  night.  Our  surprise  on  learning 
that  she  was  our  own  Anita  was  naught  to  be  compared 
to  hers  on  learning  that  the  handsome  young  gentleman 
who  had  listened  to  her  story  was  the  boy  who  had  taken 
her  to  the  dance  in  the  barn. 


i 
i 


\s 


*■ 

i 

i  1 

'  ;  1 

e  at  the 

he  great 
)wn  and 

1  now — 


r 

1 

-1 

CHAPTER  LI. 


sirsr- 


51"  I 

•  4', 


The  proofs  of  the  possible  are  the  facts  that  exist. 

Ours  was  a  typical  New  York  boarding  house.  People 
came  and  went  so  fast  that  ere  long  I  w^as  classed  among 
the  old  boarders.  Tom,  the  Anarchist,  was  still  there, 
as  were  the  timid  young  man — whom  I  always  thought 
of  as  the  "Medal"  man — and  the  bald  headed  real  estate 
broker.  We  three  saw  much  of  each  other.  The 
"Medal"  man  was  now  seemingly  prosperous.  Tom  had 
interested  him  in  his  East  Side  work,  and  through  that 
he  was  called  to  preach  in  a  small  mission,  where  he  was 
much  loved  by  the  poor  who  made  up  his  congregation. 

Tom  and  I  used  often  to  sit  and  talk  far  into  the  night, 
for,  since  he  learned  that  I  was  preparing  for  the  pro- 
fession of  the  law.  he  took  much  interest  in  my  studies. 

"You  have  a  great  work  before  you,"  he  would  say; 
"a  very  great  work.  There  is  no  profession  in  which  the 
possibilities  for  good  are  so  grand,  and  yet  there  is  no 
profession  in  which  there  is  so  much  of  evil  practiced. 
The  greatest  statesmen  in  your  country  are  lawyers,  the 
greatest  orators,  too,  are  of  that  profession,  and  yet  some 
of  the  most  unscrupulous  men  are  in  that  calling — ^inen 
who  would  rob  the  widow,  and  turn  the  orphan  into  the 
cold  world  with  scarce  a  coat  to  cover  him,  all  under  the 
cloak  of  legal  right.  How  I  long  to  see  the  time  when 
justice  may  be  found  outside  the  covers  of  the  diction- 
ary !" 

288 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


289 


exist. 

People 
id  among 
till  there, 
1  thought 
eal  estate 
ler.  The 
Tom  had 
)ugh  that 
•e  he  was 
gation. 
:he  night, 
the  pro- 
studies. 
)uld  say ; 
,vhich  the 
ere  is  no 
practiced, 
'vers,  the 
yet  some 
ng — ^men 
I  into  the 
inder  the 
me  when 
I  diction- 

288 


I  tried  to  change  the  course  of  his  mind,  but  I  could 
not.  This  man  wiio  was  giving  up  iiis  life  to  the  puor 
seemed  to  feel  that  our  system  was  all  wrong. 

"You  have  too  many  and  tou  intricate  laws,"  he  con- 
tinued, not  noticing  my  interruption.  "Laws  matle  by 
incompetent  men.  In  this  country  the  rule  is  to  send 
your  least  able  men  to  represent  you  in  your  assemblies 
and  representative  halls,  men  whose  abilities,  in  many  in- 
stances, you  would  not  trust  to  try  a  ixnty  case  before  a 
country  'Squire.'  Your  assemblies  meet  too  often — once 
in  two  years  instead  of  every  year  would  be  far  Ix'tter." 

"iiut  then,"  said  1.  "supix>se  a  batl  law  be  passed,  it 
must  remain  (jii  the  statute  books  two  whole  years  before 
it  could  l)e  repealed." 

"Ah.  that  is  the  point  I  wish  to  prove.  Send  men  of 
judgment,  men  who  cannot  be  paid  to  make  a  bad  law, 
and  it  will  not  have  to  be  repealed.  In  your  present  sy.s- 
tem  every  Assemblyman  or  Congressman  feels  that  he  is 
not  apprtviated  by  his  constituents  unless  he  put  through 
a  number  of  measures,  even  though  these  measures  may 
have  to  be  repealed  the  next  year. 

"I  knew  a  Kansas  Congressman  who  once  got  $20,000 
appropriated  to  spend  on  trying  to  make  the  Arkansas 
River  navigable.  The  money  was  spent  with  all  the  pro- 
digality of  publie  funds.  Cotton  wcx)d  poles  v.-ere  driven 
into  the  sand  along  the  edges  of  the  proposed  channel 
and  brush  interwoven." 

"Did  it  answer  the  purix)se?"  T  asked. 

"Oh.  yes,  he  was  re-elected  by  an  increased  majority, 
but  one  could  wade  across  the  river  as  easily  as  before. 
His  constituents  got  the  benefit  of  the  money  and  said  not 
a  word,  wdiile  the  country  either  knew  nothing  about  it  or 
got  the  impression  that  Wichita  had  been  made  a  steam- 
boat landing,  all  for  $20,000. 


*  f 


^1 


290 


MY    FRIEND   BILL. 


[2Hli& 


"I  would  have  less  government.  Hacli  year  new  offices 
are  made,  that  the  leaders  may  place  their  'heelers,'  as  you 
call  them.  Jn  many  instances  one  man  could  till  the  places 
of  four,  and  then  not  Ix;  overworked.  1  know  men  who 
should  still  he  using  a  pick  and  shovel  who  are  drawing 
big  salaries,  simply  because  they  can  inthience  a  certain 
number  of  votes.  These  men  till  offices  not  needed  fur 
the  better  government  of  the  cities,  and  in  turn  other 
'heelers,'  who  have  less  intluence,  but  more  brains,  are  ap- 
pointed to  do  the  work  of  the  office ;  and  so  it  runs. 

"Ruben,  did  you  ever  think  that  the  one  imixjrtant  tiling 
of  a  great  government  is  that  its  children  should  have 
every  ])ossible  educational  advantage,  that  its  teachers 
should  be  well  chosen  and  well  paid?" 

"Arc  they  not  well  paid  now  ?"  I  asked. 

*'y\s  compared  with  many  an  illiterate  office-holding 
politician,  no.  Men  ignorant  of  everything  but  how  to 
wheedle  your  people  out  of  their  votes  are  in  many  in- 
stances paid  as  many  thousands  as  your  leachers  are  paid 
hundreds  for  doing  nothing  but  draw  their  salaries  and 
work  for  their  party.  Your  cities  would  be  better  gov- 
erned without  the  political  sinecure,  and  the  wasted  money 
better  exi^ended  on  the  faithful  teachers  who  give  the  best 
years  of  their  life  for  the  teaching  and  upbuilding  of  your 
future  citizens. 

"I  tell  you.  Ruben,  it  is  all  wrong — wrong  now,  and 
growing  worse  as  the  insatiable  desire  for  government  |)0- 
sitions  (city  and  national)  grc^ws  u|>on  the  people.  It 
creates  a  dissatisfaction  with  the  hard  drudgery  that  must 
be  done  to  keep  the  wheels  going.  iVIen  want  something 
easier,  and.  looking  about,  catch  sight  of  a  ']X)sition,'  and 
bend  all  their  efforts  to  reach  some  petty  office,  no  matter 
what  the  office,  so  that  tliev  niav  not  have  to  tlrudge. 
Many  a  good  artisan  is  turned  into  a  poor  Alderman,  who, 


"-^m 


MV   I'KIEND   BILL. 


2yi 


ivv  offices 

;,'  as  you 
he  places 
neti  who 
drawing 
I  certain 
eded  for 
rn  other 
,  are  ap- 

int  tiling 
lid  have 
teachers 


-holding 

how   to 

iiany  in- 

are  paid 

ries  and 

ter  gov- 

.1  money 

the  best 

of  your 

ow,  and 
nent  i>o- 
plc.  It 
lat  must 
mething 
on,'  and 
)  matter 
drudge. 
m,  who, 


in  turn,  helps  make  the  laws  fur  your  great  cities.  This 
hulds  good  not  alone  in  the  petty  offices  sought  for  the 
pay,  but  often  in  the  highest  iK>sitioiis  in  your  counlry 
sought  fur  the  honor.  Look,  if  yuu  will,  into  the  Wlil- 
lionaires'  Club,"  at  the  seat  of  your  Xational  C.uvernment. 
\\  ho  are  the  men  whu  are  tilling  the  i)iaces  vacated  by  your 
Uebsters,  Clays,  Calhouns,  Jelfersons  and  like  statasn'ien  ? 
True,  it  has  even  yet  many  great  men;  but  compare  the 
ability  and  simplicity  of  other  days  with  the  luxury-loving 
I)resent.  What  an  example  is  this  great  national  alms- 
house for  the  millions  who  are  struggling  for  a  meagre 
existence!  1  say  'almshouse,'  for  iloes  nut  your  govern- 
ment dole  out  and  pay  for  the  'cold  tea,'  bromo-seltzers, 
etc.,  as  it  would  dole  out  and  pay  for  yuur  paupers.^" 

"But,  Tom,"  said  1,  "would  you  iiave  our  great  law- 
makers placed  upon  a  'cheap'  scale?  \'ou  must  remem- 
l>er  that  times  have  changed  since  the  days  of  'Jeffersonian 
simplicity.'  " 

"(-)h.  how  true  that  is!  Times  have  indee<l  changed. 
The  man  with  millions  now  fills  the  place  once  held  by  the 
statesman,  but  the  poor  of  your  land  are  worse  off  than 
they  were  in  the  old  days,  and  are  made  to  feel  it  bv  seeing 
how  luxurious  your  lawmakers  are  enabled  to  live,  whilst 
they  must  struggle  on  with  little  for  the  present  and  a 
prospect  for  even  less  as  the  times  continue  to  change. 

"Seeing  all  this  luxury,  the  desire  for  office  is  ])ecoming 
so  intense  that  a  man  will  barter  self-respect,  honor,  every- 
thing, to  the  leader  who  may  be  able,  by  means  of  vast,  far- 
reaching  [)olitical  machinery,  to  elect  him.  Ls  that  man's 
vote  cast  for  the  good  of  the  peoi>le  who  sent  him  ?  Does 
his  own  judgment  play  any  part  in  legislation?  fn  a 
word,  does  he  or  the  silent  leader  make  vour  laws!^     Tho 


lobbyist  will  soon  be  relegated  to  some  political 
His  calling  is  rapidly  passing.     The  great 


mu« 


scum . 
corporation 


that 


292 


MV    FKIliNU   BILL. 


H 


lit' 

II  ■, 


wishes  a  law  iliat  will  wring  from  the  burdened  public 
fiiiore  money  and  turn  it  into  its  vast  party  treasury  does 
not  go,  as  formerly,  into  your  halls  of  Assembly,  wine, 
dine  and  bu>  your  Assemblymen,  but  it  goes  quietly  to 
some  great  leader,  and  there  bargaiiib  for  it  as  for  a  legiti- 
mate commodity." 

"Do  VK ''^  mean,  Tom,  that  these  leaders  accept  money, 
as  individuals?" 

"No,  not  that  exactly.  They  simply  allow  the  cor[xira- 
lion  to  donate  thousands  of  dollars  toward  running  iln 
'machine.'  Many  of  them  are  personally  very  honest 
men.  It  is  not  the  money  but  the  power  they  can  wield  by 
being  able  to  raise  the  necessary  funds.  i"H.»me  men  care 
far  more  for  power  than  for  gold  or  silver.  To  know  that 
they  can  make  or  ruin  the  ])rospects  of  a  candidate  ;  to  pass 
or  kill  a  measure  by  a  nod  or  shake  of  the  head ;  to  have 
their  fellow-men  bow  to  their  slightest  wish,  is  far  sweeter 
to  them  than  mines  of  wealth." 

"This  may  be  true,"  said  I,  "of  elective  oflficcs ;  but  does 
not  the  civil  service  protect  the  aspirant  for  an  appointive 
position?" 

"Ruben,  the  man  whose  per  cent,  on  real  ability  might 
reach  100  stands  no  chance  with  one  of  50  per  cent,  of 
ability  and  49  per  cent,  of  political  influence." 

"Tom,"  said  I,  "vou  are  too  severe  on  our  svstem  of 
government.  You  can  sec  nothing  that  is  right.  Every- 
thing is  wrong,  and  yet  1  had  thought  no  government  in 
the  world  had  so  fine  a  s}  stem  a.>  ours.  You  have  con- 
demned it  in  a  general  •n^'.  v.^itch  is  .\c  proof  of  the 
wrong." 

"Then  let  me  speak  of  the  wrongs  not  in  a  general  way. 
Is  it  a  correct  system  of  government  that  in  any  form  gives 
rights  to  one  that  it  gives  not  to  all  ?  Is  it  a  right  system 
of  government  that  admits  of  a  possibility  of  a  great  mer- 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


293 


(1  public 
ury  docs 
ly,  wine, 
iiietly  to 
a  Icgiti- 

i  money, 

corjx)ra- 
niiig  the 
,•  lioncst 
wield  by 
lien  care 
now  that 
;  to  pass 
to  have 
■  sweeter 

but  does 
jpointive 

ty  might 
cent,  of 

y'stem  of 
Every- 
iment  in 
ave  con- 
»f  of  the 

'ral  way. 
rm  gives 
t  system 
eat  mer- 


chant who  perchance  has  contributed  a  vast  ainount  of 
mont  to  elect  his  fa  o'".j,  receiving  in  turn  for  that  con- 
tribution contracts  at  liis  own  price,  aj^ainst  all  bids,  no 
matter  how  low  ?  Is  it  a  right  system  of  government 
wilt  re  a  favorite  bank,  which,  like  the  merchant,  had  re- 
sponded when  called  upon  for  campaign  funds,  is  given 
l)rfference  tver  all  others  .>  a  (k'iH)^itory  ?  <  )r.  coming 
down  to  the  individual,  is  it  a  right  system  of  ^>  riiment 
where  laws  oppress  one  that  anotlicr  may  l>e  benefitv  1 "'  1:4 
that  law  a  just  one  that  says  one  man  shall  work  ,  ndl 
day  at  hard  labor,  putting  in  cver\  minute  oi  tin  tiiih  il 
a  low  wage,  while  it  gives  to  another  high  pay  for  tie  or 
two  hours'  sitting?  And  right  here  I  wiP  In*  -cifii  " 
Property  is  to  be  condemned  for  water  rigli  ■-  or  a  >i  (■< 
is  to  be  opened  or  widened.  <  r  some  other  matter  of  pu'»lic 
needs  is  to  be  attended  to.  .  commission  is  ai)iK)int  mi 
which  more  of  your  men  wii'i  influence  arc  placed.  Vn 
hour's  sitting  means  a  day's  w  >rk.  Tens  of  thousan'  >f 
dollars  of  the  public's  money  are  frittered  away  for  w 
if  conducted  as  men  of  busiiifss  would  conduct  th  r 
business,  could  be  better  adjustr  1  in  a  short  time  and  a' 
nominal  cost.  Pegging  your  pardon  for  any  <ceming  d 
respect  to  vour  chosen  profession,  I  am  sorry  to  have  t« 
say  that  much  of  this  costly  commission  work  must  be 
laid  at  your  dof^rs.  You  never  ush  commission  work. 
You  extend  a  case  with  even  more  tact  than  a  poor  doctor 
with  a  rich  patient.  Why.  sonn  of  these  conimissions 
cost  in  fees  almost  as  much  as  tht  price  of  the  j)roj)erty 
condemned.  Your  lawyers,  in  tliei  seeming  effort  to  get 
the  people's  lands  for  less  than  th  ir  value,  make  these 
lands  cost  far  above  their  value.  The  day  will  come  when 
the  people  will  find  a  far  less  expen^-ive  way  of  determin- 
ing real  values  than  by  an  expensive  rommission. 

"Wipe  out  those  laws  from  the  stitute  which  oppress 


h 


294 


MY   FRIEND    BILL. 


thr-  j)(;or,  fur,  RuIjcii,  tlic  Lord  knows  theii  fives  are  hard 
enough  at  l»cst.  The  impression  among-  those  who  know 
nothing  about  the  p(X)r,  save  as  inferior  beings  to  1)e 
looked  down  upon,  is  that  they  liave  no  aspirations  above 
the  Hfe  they  lead.  Ruben,  I  have  seen  men  among  those 
ground  down  by  |X)verty  who  have  aspirations  that  make 
a  hell  of  their  surroundings.  They  would  rise  above 
them,  but  they  cannot.  The  injustice  of  their  fellow-men 
has  so  interwoven  systems  of  oppression  that  they  cannot 
surmount  the  barriers  that  shut  them  in.  I  do  not  speak 
of  those  who  are  numbed  by  ignorance  and  are  happy  in 
their  condition.  These  are  content,  in  a  great  measure, 
with  their  lot  in  life  and  are  happy  with  little.  I  s])eak 
of  those  who  would  come  out  of  their  low  condition,  a 
condition  reached  too  often  through  no  fault  of  theirs,  but 
through  wrong  systems. 

"I  once  stood  in  a  great  railway  station  and  watched 
the  people  come  and  go.  Xear  me  was  a  young  husband 
and  wife.  I'>om  a  fev^  sentences  I  gathered  that  the  wife 
was  from  some  inland  town,  and  was  at  the  station  to  take 
a  train  for  her  old  home. 

"  'Tack,'  she  said.  T  hate  to  go.  Each  time  I  go  back.  T 
look  worse.  Both  nu-  clothing  and  my  face  show  the 
struggle  we  have  had  against  poverty.  But,  oh !  Jack, 
dear,  I  do  not  blame  you,  for  I  know  you  have  done  the 
best  you  could !'  They  were  silent  as  they  turned  to  wipe 
something  from  their  eyes.  Oh  that  the  rich,  who  know 
not  nor  feel  not  the  struggles  of  the  poor  for  their  exist- 
ence, could  have  seen  that  simple  parting!  Is  the  un- 
needed  surplus  of  their  wealth  worth  those  silent  tears? 
Do  the  wasted  roses  and  rare  flowers  pay  for  the  misery 
their  cost  might  relieve? 

"When  the  wife  had  gone  1  made  excuse  to  talk  with 
the  husband.    At  first  he  was  loath  to  speak  other  than 


MY    FRIEND   BILL. 


295 


ire  hard 
10  know 
;  ti)  be 
IS  above 
ig  those 
at  make 
.^  above 
o\v-men 
,•  cannot 
3t  speak 
lappy  in 
neasure. 
T  speak 
Ution,  a 
eirs.  but 

watched 
husband 
the  wife 
1  to  take 

)  back,  I 
how  the 
li!  Jack, 
lone  the 

to  wipe 
10  know 
•ir  exist- 

the  un- 
it tears? 
e  misery 

alk  with 
lier  than 


in  commonplace,  but  I  tmally  drew  from  him  some  of  his 
life's  history,  which  was  that  of  thousands  ot  others.  He 
had  once  held  a  lucrative  position  in  a  great  manufactur- 
ing firm  and  was  prosperous.  He  had  been  a  traveling 
salesman,  or  what  vou  in  America  call  a  drummer— 1.  O. 
O.  G.  F.— a  body  of  men,  by  the  way,  who  might  well  be 
called  the  Sunshine  of  Commercial  Life,  as  they  have  car- 
ried throughout  vour  land  more  of  brightness  than  has 
anv  other  class.  lUit  the  sunshine  is  fast  waning  into  twi- 
light, and  the  places  that  have  known  him  will  ere  long 
know  him  no  more.  And  all  l^ecause  other  of  your  people, 
less  worthy,  want  that  'fraction  of  a  per  cent.' 

"This  man  was  cultured,  but  his  spirits  were  broken  by 
the  long  fight  for  existence.  His  clothing,  of  rich  material 
when  nexv.  was  now,  from  long  wear,  much  worn,  and 
showed  the  handiwork  of  a  frugal  wife  in  the  patches  she 
had  tried  so  hard  to  disguise.  Oh,  the  tears  and  heart- 
aches oft  indicated  by  a  patch ! 

"The  firm  for  which  he  had  worked  from  office  boy  up- 
ward went  into  a  trust,  and  he  was  no  longer  needed. 
He  sought  a  position  in  the  only  line  he  knew,  but  was 
everywhere  told  that  there  was  no  place  for  him.  No 
place  for  a  man  to  earn  his  loaf  of  bread  in  this  age,  when 
others  are  piling  up  their  millions ! 

"He  finally  got  his  name  placed  on  the  waiting  list  in  a 
great  street  railway  coriioration.  and  when  I  met  him  he 
was  working  'a  few  days  each  week.'  as  he  said.  He  told 
me  how  that  these  great  corjiorations  broke  in  unneeded 
numbers  of  men,  so  that  in  case  of  a  strike  the  places  of 
the  strikers  could  always  be  filled  by  others,  who  were 
driven  by  necessity  to  accei)t  any  terms  offered.  'Jacks' 
are  becoming  very  numerous. 

"I  would  not  have  the  rich  give  their  wealth  in  charity. 
Charity,  so-called,  degrades  the  recipient  and  relieves  but 


296 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


i;i 


temporary  needs.    Give  'Jack'  a  chance  to  lielp  liimself. 
That  is  true  charity  and  lasting." 

"Yes,  Tom,  but  how?"  I  asked.  "In  tliis  age  of  close 
competition  the  manufacturers,  the  business  men  in  gen- 
eral, have  to  watch  every  turn  lest  they  themselves  fail.  I 
tell  you  it  is  an  impossibility  to  give  to  the  employee  bet- 
ter than  he  is  now  getting." 

"Ruben,  the  proofs  of  the  possible  are  the  facts  that 
exist.  I  have  in  mind  an  establishment  which  has  grown 
as  tbough  by  magic.  There  is  in  this  vast  manufactory 
none  of  that  feeling  against  the  firm  which  prevails  too 
often  where  the  emi)loyee  is  counted  only  as  a  machine. 
The  head  of  this  great  industry  has  a  heart  through  which 
pulsates  human  feeling.  He  has  erected  a  library  and 
filled  it  with  the  choicest  literature,  making  of  his  em- 
ployees a  reading,  thinking  people.  He  has  surrounded  his 
great  buildings  with  a  labarynth  of  trees  and  flowers.  He 
has  a  hospital  for  those  who  may  become  ill,  and  the  best 
of  physicians  to  minister  to  them.  In  short,  his  people  are 
his  family.  His  rules  are  just  and  bear  lightly.  The 
products  of  his  factory  are  the  perfection  of  mechanism ; 
for  the  workmen  put  into  th.eir  work  a  loving  judgment. 
They  give  in  return  for  fair  treatment  the  best  they  have 
— cultured  skill. 

"iVoain,  not  far  from  the  citv  wherein  is  located  the 
above  works,  in  a  little  town  in  Southern  Ohio,  there  is  a 
great  manufacturing  firm  whose  employees  share  in  its 
profits,  A  strike  is  never  known.  The  workman  feels  that 
the  great  men  in  the  office  are  his  friends ;  he  feels,  too, 
that  they  are  working  for  him,  and  in  his  turn  he  must 
work  to  their  best  interest  who  have  made  his  life  less  of  a 
burden.  He  becomes  a  better  workman  and  a  better  man. 
While  other  firms  in  the  same  line  have  failed,  this  one  has 
gone  steadily  on,  until  it  is  far  in  advance  of  all  its  com- 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


-^97 


.^If. 


petitors.  until  it  has  no  competitors.  What  it  has  done 
otliers  can  do.  The  niiUionairc  who  gives  to  chanty  his 
thousands  ground  out  of  the  Hves  of  his  workmen  wdl  get 
no  reward  here  nor  hereafter." 

"Tom.  what  vou  say  may  he  very  true,  but  do  you  know 
what  the  world' calls  men  who  advocate  such  principles  as 
you  have  been  advocating  to-night?"' 

"And,  Ruben,  do  you  know  what  the  men  of  Ephesus 
called  the  Apostles?'  I  tell  you  right  is  right,  though  it 
take  a  thousand  years  to  prove  it !  The  world  may  say 
what  it  mav,  but  the  world  will  not  be  its  best  until  justice 
and  right  are  equally  meted  out  to  all.  No  wonder  the 
world  is  bad,  when  man  superior  deals  so  ill  with  man  in- 
ferior. If  the  human  instead  of  the  pride  in  mankind  were 
to  predominate,  how  soon  the  world  would  grow  better ! 
The  rich  w^ould  be  happier  and  the  poor  more  content. 

"There  will  come  a  time  when  your  people  will  see  and 
fullv  realize  their  condition,  and  with  the  coming  of  that 
time  there  will  arise  a  leader  who  will  champion  the  cause 
of  justice  and  lead  them  out  into  the  right.    This  leader 
will  not  come  from  the  conservative  East,  but  from  the 
West,  where  the  human  still  holds  sway  in  the  hearts  of 
the  people.   This  leader  will  be  a  young  man  of  the  pro- 
gressive school.   He  will  come  from  the  masses.   He  will 
be  owned  bv  no  man  or  class  of  men.     His  own  sense  of 
justice  will  dictate  his  every  act.  He  will  pay  no  incompe- 
tent man  with  a  great  office  for  political  or  financial  rea- 
sons, but  will  choose  men  whose  statesmanship  is  not 
measured  by  the  dollar  or  the  ability  to  assist  him  in  gain- 
ing the  leadership.  When  such  a  man  shall  arise,  woe  be 
to  the  trusts  that  are  grinding  out  the  lives  of  your  peo- 
ple !    Woe  be  to  the  men  who  would  make  the  lot  of  the 
poor  even  worse  than  it  now  is.     It  lias  been  said  by  a 
great  man  that  'trusts  represent  the  distinction  of  oi)por- 


298 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


tunity.'  This  young  leader  will  be  a  man  who  cannot  be 
defeated  by  the  millions  of  dollars  poured  out  by  the  rich 
corporations  who  would  destroy  him,  for  your  people  will 
recognize  him  when  he  comes  and  follow  him  on  to 
victory." 

"Tom,  why  do  you  speak  of  the  West  as  better  than  the 
East  in  human  feeling?"  I  could  not  help  asking,  as  he 
was  so  emphatic  in  his  assertion. 

"Ruben,  have  I  ever  found  a  fault  without  giving  a  rea- 
son? Can  you  call  to  mind  where  in  the  West  that  the 
very  heads  of  a  city  government  w^ould  be  so  devoid  of  all 
human  feeling  as  to  be,  for  selfish  gain,  parties  to  forcing 
uj)  by  a  trust  combination  prices  of  an  absolute  necessity 
to  a  point  almost  beyond  the  reach  of  the  very  poor,  many 
of  whose  votes  had  helped  to  place  in  power  these  same 
heads  ?  No,  Ruben,  it  could  not  be  found  in  the  West,  nor 
would  I  have  believed  it  possible  to  find  it  anywhere  in  the 
world,  not  even  among  the  lowest  order  of  beings,  much 
less  the  highest." 


^li; 


■* 


CHAPTER   LTI. 

//  is  not  the  z.'oo-i,  the  brick  and  the  stone  that  inal.'es  the 
home.  It  is  the  place  ami  not  the  structure,  the  land 
and  not  the  house. 

Wliile  Tom  was  in  the  midst  of  his  (hscoursc  on  bad 
laws  and  their  makers,  the  Broker  and  the  Preacher  came 
in  and  sat  as  interested  listeners.  Having  a  practical  tnrn 
of  mind,  the  broker  turned  the  conversation  into  a  channel 
relating  to  his  line  of  business,  the  taxing  of  real  estate, 
the  ownership  of  properties,  etc.  He  w^as  surprised  to  hear 
Tom's  notions,  as  was  I.  for  we.  knowing  his  Socialistic 
views,  had  thought  he  would  advocate  a  different  line  of 

adjustment. 

"What  is  your  opinion  on  the  question  of  'unearned  in- 
crement?' Would  you  have  only  the  unimproved  property 
pay  the  taxes  and  thus  compel  the  owners  of  such  to  im- 
prove it?  Since  it  is  by  the  buildings  of  your  neighbors 
that  your  vacant  lot  is  made  valuable,  should  you  not  pay 
for  such  enhancement?"  asked  the  broker. 

'There  never  was  a  greater  fallacy,"  began  Tom,  who 
always  seemed  ready  with  an  answer.  "A  village,  town 
or  city  needs  only  about  so  many  dwellings  or  business 
houses  to  accommodate  its  people.  Every  structure  be- 
yond its  growing  needs  but  comes  into  competition  with 
those  that  can  be  used,  and  the  further  building  of  useless 
houses  but  depreciates  the  value  of  tlio  whole.  That  man 
who  will  hold  his  vacant  lot.  pay  taxes  on  this  unearning 

295 


j| 


I 


300 


MY   FRIEND    BILL. 


property,  year  after  year,  rather  tlian  to  build  in  competi- 
tion witli  liis  neiglibor  sliould  not  be  fined  for  doinj^  it. 

"Another  very  great  fallacy  is  that  the  state  sliould  own 
the  land  and  lease  it  to  the  jjcople.  This  would  soon  blot 
out  of  the  language  that  beautiful  word  'Home.'  It  is  not 
the  wood,  the  brick  and  the  stone  that  make  the  home. 
These  may  be  1)urne(l,  shaken  down  or  blown  away.  It  is 
the  land  on  which  the  house  is  set  that  a])pcals  to  the  heart. 
Have  you  not,  when  boys,  fought  the  great  bees  that  1)uil(l 
their  nests  in  the  fields ;  fought  and  utterly  destroyed  their 
home?  Have  }ou  not  watched  those  that  escaped  your 
*bee  paddle ;'  how  they  hover  around  the  place,  and,  if  un- 
disturbed, rebuild  their  nest  in  the  same  excavation?  Your 
country  would  soon  be  a  place  of  houses  with  'home' 
eliminated  did  the  state  own  the  land.  It  is  the  place,  and 
not  the  structure  ;  the  land,  and  not  the  house." 

"Would  you  have  the  government  own  and  manage  the 
railroads,  telegraph  lines  and  such  like  interests  as  they 
are  managed  in  some  of  the  European  countries?"  asked 
the  broker. 

"By  no  means,"  Tom  replied.  "That  would  kill  the  in- 
dependence of  the  individual.  As  well  have  all  the  various 
lines  of  trade  run  by  the  government.  You  would  ere  long 
become  a  land  of  clerks  and  operators — mere  machines, 
to  swing  to  and  fro  as  the  pendulum  of  a  clock,  to  go  ex- 
actly so  far  and  back  again ;  automatons,  wound  up  and 
run  by  a  spring,  instead  of  a  mind.  There  must  always  be 
an  incentive  to  bring  out  the  best  in  man.  The  right  to 
patent  invention  has  wrought  wonders  in  all  the  lines  of 
progress.  The  man  who  has  a  vested  interest  will  always 
protect  that  interest  far  more  than  the  mere  employee. 
With  no  vested  right  of  the  individual  the  world  would 
soon  go  backward. 

"That  to  which  the  Socialist  objects  is  the  wrong  use  to 


MY   FRIEXD   BILL. 


301 


which  vested  rights  arc  put.  Tlie  p^reat  struggle  of  the 
rich  to  gain  what  tliey  do  not  neeil  deprives  ihe  poor  of 
what  tlicy  must  have  to  exist.  Wlien  the  poor  demand 
their  share,  they  are  called  Socialists;  when  they  insist, 
they  are  called  Anarchists.  The  very  poor  are  degraded. 
Continued  pinching  poverty  would  turn  a  king  into  a  vag- 
abond. Poverty  destroys  honor  and  virtues,  and  yet  we 
who  would  protect  both  are  called  approhious  names  if  we 
raise  our  voice  in  protest  and  sent  to  prison  if  we  but  raise 
our  hand." 

The  Treacher,  interested  only  in  the  moral  side  of 
matters,  asked  among  many  other  subjects:  "Why  is  it 
that  gambling  cannot  be  stop])ed  in  our  great  cities?" 

"The  reason  is  a  very  short  one."  replied  Tom  ;  "and 
that  reason  is  that  those  ir.  power  do  not  wish  it  stopped. 
It  is  a  source  of  too  great  revenue  to  them." 

"Oh,  no.  that  cannot  be  true.''  objected  the  Treacher. 
"See  how  every  year  our  good  men  in  power  try  so  hard 
to  break  up  this  terrible  evil,  even  going  so  far  as  to  de- 
stroy the  gambling  devices  of  those  wicked  men.  Xo.  you 
do  them  an  injustice.  They,  I  think,  want  to  do  their  duty 
b}-  the  people  whom  they  govern." 

"Your  argument  but  i)roves  one  of  the  reasons  for  this 
annual  crusade  against  the  evil.  They  have  two  purposes, 
these  good  men  in  power — one  is  to  fool  the  innocent  pub- 
lic, of  which  you  seem  to  be  a  member ;  but  the  real  rea- 
son, or  purpose,  is  far  deeper.  Human  nature  is  confined 
to  no  class,  and  the  gambler  has  his  portion.  One  of  the 
first  principles,  deep  rooted,  is  to  never  pay  more  for  any- 
thing than  it  is  worth ;  and  it  takes  at  least  one  good  stir- 
ring up  each  year  to  make  the  gambling  fraternity  feel 
that  they  are  not  paying  too  high  for  protection  for  the 
rest  of  the  year. 

"Among  the  'good'  men  in  power  this  crusade  is  but  a 


•J 


t 


M 


M 


I 


302 


MY   FRIEXD   BILL. 


1 '  ^.  j.^*" ' 


jest,  as  tlie  following  will  illustrate :  \  was  in  one  of  your 
cities  during  tlie  'annual  crusade.'  and  was  invited  by  a 
friend  to  go  with  him  tu  a  great  i)olitical  club  room. 
Games  of  various  kinds  were  in  progress — not  games  for 
mere  amusement,  but  for  money.  I  was  attracted  by  the 
dignified  appearance  of  a  party  of  men  seated  around  one 
of  the  tables.  They  were  not  so  deeply  interested  in  the 
game  as  not  to  take  up  the  subject  that  just  then  was  at- 
tracting some  attention  in  the  city.  'Yes,'  said  one,  'this 
gambling  is  a  terrible  evil,  and  must  be  stopped.  (Give 
me  two  cards).  It  is  •uining  our  young  men  (I  raise  you 
five),  and  filling  our  poorhouses  with  (two  of  a  kind;  can 
you  beat  it?)  widows  and  orphans.'  'Why  not  say  we  all,' 
said  another.  'Xow,  we  can  do  it.  You  represent  one  of 
the  municipal  courts ;  I  the  Prosecuting  Attorney's  office, 
and  you  of  the  police.  Yes,  let  s  reform  the  city.  (Here, 
you,  play  up!)  That's  what  we're  all  in  for !'  And  these 
men  really  represented  the  offices  mentioned.  Now,  my 
dear  man,  what  sort  of  a  hope  have  you  of  doing  anything 
with  vice  when  you  ministers  preach  one  day  of  the  seven 
while  vice  is  protected  the  whole  of  the  seven  by  men  who 
draw  double  pay — one  for  putting  down  (?)  evil,  and  the 
other  for  protecting  evil,  especially  when  the  last  pay  is 
the  higher?  1  have  long  ceased  to  worry  over  this  sub- 
ject of  'chance.'  I  find  too  much  else  to  occupy  my  time." 
I  do  not  know  whether  it  was  Tom's  enthusiasm  or  my 
own  innate  desire  to  help  the  deserving  poor  that  caused 
me  to  make  many  excursions  with  him  among  the  low 
dens  of  poverty ;  Init  this  I  know :  that  could  those  men 
whose  wealth  is  yearly  piled  higher  by  the  toil  of  the  be- 
ings I  saw,  see  and  know  the  true  condition  of  these  peo- 
ple, they  would  surely  be  content  with  less  and  gladly  give 
to  them,  not  charity,  but  just  compensation.  I  take  no 
credit  when  T  speak  of  the  many  dollars  of  Aunt  Racheal's 


1 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


3o;> 


^g 


log-acv  tliat  wctn  to  brigliton  the  homes  of  Tom's  poor,  for 
J  received  mv  reward  as  I  went.  1  know,  could  the  dear 
old  aunt  look  down  and  see  the  joy  these  dollars  hrouj.ii'ht ; 
the  homes  they  bri^luened,  the  hunger  they  relieved,  the 
cold  tliey  warmed,  the  lives  of  little  children  they  saved, 
or  the  naked  they  clothed,  that  she  would  not  feel  she  had 
erred  in  willing  me  a  part  of  her  barren  old  farm. 

Helen  seemed  never  so  happy  as  when  I  would  tell  her 
of  the  i)Oor  little  children  I  had  seen.  I  always  knew  what 
she  meant  when  she  would  begin,  "Mister  Ruben,  tell  me 
about  them  !"'  "Them"  had  only  one  meaning  to  her. 
Once  she  begged  her  mother  so  pleadingly  to  be  allowed 
to  go  with  me  that  her  wish  was  granted.  That  visit 
among  the  homes  of  the  very  poor  was  as  though  to  a  new 
world  to  her.  One  sentence  of  her  recital  of  that  visit 
told  the  whole  story.  She  had  seen  in  a  tenement  a  very 
much  starved  cat  that  went  about  coughing  and  sneezing: 
"Oh,  mamma,  you  should  see  how  those  people  live.  They 
lojk  so  tired  and  sick.  Why,  mamma,  at  one  place  even 
the  cat  had  consumption." 

After  that  visit  she  would  have  her  special  cases  to  look 
after,  through  Tom,  who  I  never  knew  to  fail  in  selecting 
the  deserving.  He  knew  the  impostors  by  intuition,  and 
they,  too,  soon  learned  to  know  and  shun  him. 


) 


CHAPTER   LI  1 1. 

"Mv  carlx  life  ran  clear  as  the  mountain  stream  nearby 
our  cottage  home.' 

One  evening,  on  my  return  from  law  scliool,  Tom  met 
me  with  a  more  than  usual  serious  f.'cc.  He  was  always 
serious.  1  had  scarce  known  him  to  smile  and  never  once 
to  laugh.  He  seemed  ever  to  be  bearing  the  burdens  of 
those  who  know  no  joy.  Life  to  him  was  always  real. 
There  were  no  flowers  along  the  wayside  for  him — naught 
but  weeds  and  tangled  vines,  and  little  graves  in  the  Pot- 
ter's Field. 

"Ruben"  said  he,  "T  want  you  to  go  with  me  to-night. 
One  of  the  saddest  deaths  occurred  today  that  I  have  ever 
witnessed.  It  was  that  of  a  woman  whose  illness  I  had 
but  heard  of  it  this  morning.  She  was  dying  when  T 
reached  the  garret  in  which  she  lay.  A  little  nest  of  straw 
and  one  thin,  raged  coverlet  was  her  bed.  A  little  girl  of 
three  vears  played  about  the  room,  all  unconscious  of  her 
mother's  conditin.  She  would  now  and  then  go  to  the 
bed  and  say  :  'Mamma,  I  is  so  hungry.  Dit  up  and  do  out 
an'  dit  me  a  tust.' 

'*  'Yes,  darling,  mamma  will  go  soon,'  and  turned  her 
head  and  sighed,  'Poor  dear !  I  will  go  soon  !' 

"The  first  thing  I  did  was  to  send  for  a  physician  and 
some  nourishing  food  for  mother  and  child ;  but  T  could 

304 


MY   FRIEND    BILL. 


305 


sec  tliat  neither  would  be  of  aii\   use  to  tlic    ii-     '  Al 

most  before  tlie  doctor  came  slie  was  gone,  but  l<  -ic  she 
died  slie  took  from  her  bosom  an  envelope  an<i  feebly 
gave  it  to  me. 

'*  *My  life's  story.  Tlease,  kind  sir,  tind  a  home  for  my 
darling — my  poor  little  Maggie.' 

"That  was  all.  I  called  in  some  of  the  women  of  the 
tenement  to  look  after  the  unfortunate,  and  left  the  child 
with  a  good  woman  I  knew. 

"Here  is  the  envelope.  1  did  not  have  the  heart  to 
open  it." 

I  took  it  from  him,  tore  it  open,  and  began  to  read.  I 
looked  for  the  name,  when,  lo! — I  exclaimed:  "Tom,  what 
strange  fate  led  you  to  that  garret?  This  woman  is  the 
long  lost  Maggie — the  widow's  daughter  (>i  whom  1  have 
told  you.'  Go  quickly,  and  at  once.  See  that  no  lady  could 
be  looked  after  more  gently.  Get  for  her  the  best.  Give 
me  the  address,  and  I  will  follow  when  1  have  read  the 
story.  It  may  contain  that  which  I  should  know  at  once." 
I  read  it  through.  It  was  short,  but  contained  a  great 
volume. 


MAGGIE  S  STORY. 

"My  story,  like  my  life,  is  very  short.  When  all  is  over, 
when  I  can  no  longer  see  that  mother  whose  life  I  have 
saddened,  send  me  back  to  her.  She  mav  remember  the 
good  and  forgive  the  bad  she  thinks  of  me. 

"I  once  was  pure  and  good  and  knew  no  wrong. 

"I  was  born  and  reared  in  Highmont,  l*enn.  My  early 
life  ran  clear  as  the  mountain  stream  nearby  our  cottage 
home,  wliere  my  mother  and  I  dwelt  alone  in  content. 

"When  a  child  of  seventeen,  when  I  knew  nothing  of 
the  wrongs  of  the  world,  there  came  into  my  life  a 
tempter,  who  told  me  of  the  beauties  to  be  seen  in  other 


3o6 


MY   FRIEND    BILL. 


:i  '■ 


■■) 


H^. 


lands.  Oh,  the  pictures  he  drew  of  that  world  ahout 
which  1  knew  nothing !  To  nic  he  proposed  marriage,  and 
thuugh  I  knew  naught  of  him,  I  loved,  aye,  worshi))cd 
him,  and  accepted  his  oiler.  1  would  have  told  my  mother 
at  once,  but  he  forbade  it.  'Xo,'  said  he,  'we  will  go  away 
and  be  married.  She  might  object,  and,  my  darling,  I 
dare  not  risk  losing  you.'  I  believed  him,  and  late  in  the 
night  we  came  away,  walking  a  long  distance.  l"or  him  I 
could  have  walked  to  the  end  of  the  world.  We  reachetl 
at  last  a  railway  station,  and  came  to  a  city — where  I  do 
not  know.  There  we  were  driven  a  long  distance  to  a 
house,  where  we  were  married,  as  I  then  thought.  The 
man  gave  us  a  paper,  which  my  husband  kept.  From  this 
city  we  came  to  New  York.  The  first  thing  I  did  was  to 
write  a  long  letter  to  my  mother,  asking  her  to  forgive  me 
and  telling  her  how  hapi)y  I  was. 

"1  soon  learned  that  my  husband  was  very  wealthy.  He 
bought  for  me  the  finest  of  gowns  and  jewels.  He  said  I 
was  very  beautiful,  and  that  he  was  jjroud  of  me.  All 
these  things  were  as  nothing  to  his  love  of  me. 

"We  traveled  in  FAirope,  visiting  all  the  great  cities, 
seeing  the  things  of  which  he  had  told  me.  The  sights 
we  saw  soon  began  to  lose  their  charm,  for  I  could  see 
that  my  husliand's  love  was  growing  cold.  We  returned 
to  Xew  York,  which  we  had  scarcely  reached  when  my 
husband  said :  'Maggie,  I  think  we  have  kept  up  this  farce 
long  enough !' 

"  'What  do  you  mean  by  farce?' 

"  'Why,'  said  he,  with  a  sneer  that  cut  like  a  knife  into 
my  heart,  'the  farce  of  being  married.  \\'e  are  not 
married !' 

"  'Not  married  ?  That  cannot  be  true — we  were,  and 
you  have  the  paper.' 

"  'Come,  come,  little  one,  don't  grow  hysterical.    Even 


MY   FRIEND    BILL. 


307 


.1  about 
i^c,  and 
irsliipcd 
mother 
JO  away 
rli^^^  I 
c  in  the 
>r  liiiii  I 
reached 
;re  I  do 
ice  to  a 
t.  Tlic 
om  this 
,  was  to 
give  me 

:hy.  He 
e  said  I 
le.     All 

t  cities, 
2  sights 
mid  see 
eturned 
hen  my 
lis  farce 


life  into 
ire    not 

;re,  and 

.    Even 


if  we  were  married,  you  have  no  proof  of  it.  Why,  you 
don't  ♦•  u  kn(3w  the  city  where  that  sham  cerenu)ny  was 
|)r()nounced.' 

"  '( )h,  what  will  mv  mother  sav,  alter  all  mv  letters  to 
her,  telling  of  our  marriage  and  my  great  happiness!' 

■•'Don't  worry,  little  one.  She  knows  nothing.  Your 
letters  were  never  sent.' 

■'This  wa.s  too  gre.it  a  Mow.  The  perti(l\  of  the  man  I 
had  worshiped  as  a  god!  1  swooned  awa\ ,  ami  when  my 
senses  retiUMied  I  was  alone. 

"Why  tell  of  my  long  years  of  struggle  !  My  life  is  but 
the  counterjjart  of  hundreds  of  other  wronged  women 
who  have  had  to  suffer  on  in  silence.  My  little  one  came, 
and,  not  daring  to  use  another's  name,  1  gave  her  my  own. 

*'As  long  as  I  could  pledge  my  jewels  and  tine  clothing 
we  lived.     Since  then  we  have  existed. 

"A  woman  with  a  child  has  no  place.  Xo  doors  were 
open  to  us.     We  were  outcasts. 

*'I*>om  a  rented  room  to  a  tenement,  and  then  the  end — 
a  garret ! 

"Xot  long  ago,  when  1  was  almost  in  raj^s.  I  was  stand- 
ing one  evening  watching  the  richly  d  ofsed  people  enter- 
ing one  of  the  great  theatres,  when  a  carriage  drove  up  to 
the  sidewalk.  A  gentleman  and  a  beautiful  young  wcMuan 
alighted  and  were  about  to  enter  the  theatre,  when  I 
recognized  in  the  tuan  my  husband.  I  started  toward  h'uu, 
pleading  him  to  hear  me.  'Officer!'  said  he  to  a  ready 
policeman,  who  stood  near  the  eiUrance,  'take  this  woman 
away,'  at  the  same  time  thrusting  money  into  the  officer's 
hand.  I  was  thrown  into  ])rison,  and  when,  next  morning, 
I  was  brought  before  the  judge,  the  story  told  by  the 
policeman  outweighed  my  ])raycrs,  and  T  was  sent  away 
to  the  island  for  three  montlis,  during  which  time  the 
kind  neighbors,  who  are  nearly  as  poor  as  myself,  looked 


11  ■ 


3o8 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


after  my  little  Maggie. 

"The  very  name  my  hns1)an(l  gave  was  as  false  as  him- 
self;  and  yet  1  would  have  known  and  recognized  the  face 
of  the  'Hunter,'  as  he  was  known  at  Highmont,  had  I  seen 
it  in  the  furthest  i)art  of  the  world. 

'This  is  the  end  of  my  story,  and  soon,  I  feel,  will  come 
the  end  of  my  young  life,  while  he  who  has  caused  all  this 
sorrow  and  pain  will  live  on,  honored  by  the  world — for 
he  has  gold.  1.  too.  might  live  on  were  I  false  to  my 
vows;  l)ut  T  will  die  here  in  my  garret  alone  with  my 
child  rather  than  l)e  unfaithful  to  him.  Though  he  be 
false  in  everything,  yet  do  I  love  him. 

"Should  my  dear  old  mother  be  living,  I  pray  she  may 
forgive  her  wronged  ALvggie. 

Then  followed  a  postscript,  in  which  she  gave  her 
mother's  name ;  also  the  name  by  which  she  had  known 
her  husband. 


P*'^  n 


i 


in 


CHAPTER  LLV. 

''The  people  of  a  small  ^^iilage  are  quick  to  blame  ami 
quite  as  ready  to  comione  a  lerong  step." 

"I  is  so  happy.  My  dood  dvamma  says  I  i^'ont  never 
have  to  eat  tusts  no  more." 

As  the  reader  knows,  the  mother  was  well  known  to 
me,  and  by  another  strange  fate  I  had  recently  seen  the 
"Hunter"  a  number  of  times  enter  a  most  palatial  resi- 
dence not  far  from  my  boarding  place. 

I  am  (luick  to  act.  So,  hailing  a  passing  cab,  I  was  soon 
being  driven  toward  the  "Hunter's"  home. 

Mv  mind  was  a  chaos  of  thought.  What  could  T  do? 
I  had  no  proof,  although  certain  that  he  was  the  man.  1  le 
could  deny  all  knowledge  of  the  dead  woman.  No  one 
had  seen  liim  leave  Highmont  with  her,  and  no  one  that  I 
could  have  found  knew  (^f  the  marriage.  Even  the  city 
where  it  had  been  performed  was  unknown.  I  had  abso- 
lutelv  no  witness.  No  witness?  Vc-s.  I  had  one— his 
own  heart ;  and  I  would  make  that  one  lone  witness  prove 
his  guilt.  How  could  I  excuse  my  call  on  him?— T,  a 
stranger,  with  no  right  to  enter  his  home  and  brand  him 
as  a  villain  !    And  yet  I  would  see  him.  and  at  once ! 

I  was  at  his  door.  T  bid  the  cabman  wait  for  me.  T 
sent  in  mv  card,  giving  the  false  name  as  the  one  1  wished 
to  see.  The  negro  grinned  out:  "1  gue^-s  mistali.  you 
dun  made  a  mistake.    De  man  yah  wants  doan  lib  heah." 

309 


310 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


i 

i 

I 

.'a 

■i 

! 
I 

I 


i 


"Give  the  card  to  the  young  gentleman  who  does,  and 
say  I  wish  to  see  Mr.  Charles  Couldcrs." 

This  was  a  hold  stroke  on  my  part,  hut  nothing  less 
seemed  to  me  at  the  time  a  hetter  way  of  placing  my  one 
lone  witness  in  the  chair.  T  knew  that  the  "Hunter"  would 
not  send  word  that  a  mistake  had  heen  made.  The  wit- 
ness would  not  allow  such  word  to  he  sent. 

Ah,  he  quickly  responds ;  almost  hefore  I  had  taken  a 
seat  he  was  in  the  reception  room,  to  which  I  had  heen 
shown. 

He  faltered  as  he  spoke.  "I  fear  you  have  made  a  mis- 
take, Mr.  Hick — Mr. (looks  at  the  card)    Hickcn- 

loo])cr." 

"Then  why,"  said  I,  "did  you  not  send  word  hy  your 
servant  if  I  have  made  a  mistake?"  He  saw  the  point  / 
raised  and  colored  deeply. 

"Well,  Mr.  Couldcrs  d<K^s  not  live  here,"  said  he. 

"How  long  since  he  did?"  1  asked. 

"He  never  lived  here  !"  with  rising  emphasis. 

"Possihly  not  as  'Mr.  Couldcrs.' ''  said  I  searchingly. 

"What  do  you  mean,  sir?"  coming  toward  me. 

"]My  words  hear  their  own  meaning,  and  roed  no  trans- 
lation." 

"Come  to  the  point,  sir,  and  play  not  with  words." 

"Then,  Mr.  Couldcrs,  your  li'ifc  died  this  afternoon  in 
utter  poverty,  whilst  you  are  living  in  all  this  luxury. 
That  is  what  I  mean  !" 

Ah,  that  was  the  dart  that  ])ierced  my  one  witness.  It 
made  the  "Hunter"  tremhle  and  grasp  at  a  chair  for  sup- 
port.   I  would  have  followed  it  up,  hut  he  asked : 

"Your  proof,  sir!*' 

"That  is  the  very  demand  a  guilty  man  would  make. 
Guilty,  you  know,  hut  as  a  last  hope  you  ask  the  proof— 
you  know,  hut  would  ask  a  proof  of  it.    Mr.  Couldcrs,  I 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


3" 


i| 


coire  10  voii  direct,  asking  reparation  for  the  awtul  wrong 
you  have  done  an  innocent  girl.  Will  you  make  that 
reparation  or  will  you  compel  me  to  take  the  course  that 
will  right  this  great  wrong?" 

"Who  are  you,  sir.  who  thus  enter  my  house  and  make 
such  accusation?" 

"I  am  the  defender  of  the  woman  who  lies  dead  to- 
night in  a  lonely  garret,  whilst  her  hushaiul,  who  should 
have  protected  her.  denies  that  he  knew  her." 

"Again  I  ask  :  Where's  your  proof  ?  Suppose  that  what 
you  sav  be  true,  you  cannot  prove  it.  You  have  no  record. 
You  cannot  even  name  the  city  where  the  ceremony  was 

pronounced." 

Ah,  that  was  true.  I  had  no  evidence,  but  I  would  con- 
tinue my  bold  effort,  even  up  to  the  verge  of  what  I  would 
detest,  did  I  not  know  he  was  guilty. 

"Mr.  Coulders.  what  you  say  may  be  true.  T  may  not 
have  the  proof  that  would  convict  you  before  a  jury  of 
twelve,  but  I  have  this,  which,  when  that  far  greater  jury 
—the  world— sees,  you  will  tremble  at  its  verdict.  I  have, 
sir,  your  wife's  dying  statement,  and  she  names  you  as  her 
husband,  with  evidence,  strong  enough,  in  my  mind,  to 
warrant  this  bold  accusation  on  my  part.  You  refuse  to 
right  the  wrong?  I  will  not  produce  the  proof.  I  will  let 
the  last  words  of  your  wronged  wife  do  that.  Then  you 
will  be  asked  by  an  exacting  jury  to  refute  her  words. 
Uv.  Coulders.  T  will  bid  you  good  evening." 

"Stay  !  Do  not  go  away  with  that  threat.  T  am  innocent 
in  the  law,  and  you  cannot  prove  me  other  than  innocent; 
but  I  do  not  wish  my  name  to  be  kicked  about  by  the  com- 
mon herd !    What  do  you  demand  for  your  great  interest 

in  this  person?" 

"F.)r     myself     T     demand     nothing,    but     for     yr.ti.r 

child "  ' 


312 


MY  FRIEND   BILL. 


m 


"What!"  he  exclaimed;  ''a  child— my  child?" 

"Yes ;  a  pretty  little  girl  of  three  years.  For  her  I  de- 
mand that  you  shall  place  in  trust  a  sum  tliat  will  in  a 
measure  make  up  for  the  wrongs  you  have  done  her  dead 
mother — your  wife !" 

"Call  upon  me  at  lo  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  you 
shall  have  my  answer.  One  more  question,  sir :  Who  are 
you,  and  who  is  your  reference  that  I  may  know  with 
whom  I  am  dealing?" 

"You  have  my  card,  and  my  reference  is  Mr.  Edward 
S.  Dellerthern. 

"What!  the  firm  of  DeHertbern  &  Son?"  he  asked,  in 
great  surprise. 

"The  same,"  said  I. 

"Well,  I  trust  our  conversation  to-night  will  not  be  re- 
peated to  them." 

"I  do  not  repeat  conversations,"  said  I  quietly. 

"Good-night,  Mr.  (another  glance  at  the  card)  Hick- 
enloo])er.  1  will  expect  you  at  lo  to-morrow,"  and  he 
extended  his  hand,  but  I  did  not  see  it — at  least  did  not 
take  it — as  I  left  the  house. 

I  was  driven  to  the  address  Tom  gave  me.  The  con- 
trast was  well  expressed  by  tlie  cabman  when  he  said,  as 
I  got  out  of  the  cab,  "From  pallis  to  the  huvel !" 

That  voice !   Wliere  had  I  heard  it  before  ? 

"Is  this  Pat,  who  once  drove  a  young  country  boy  from 
the  ferry  up  to  and  then  the  whole  length  of  Fifth  avenue, 
looking  for  Fifth  avenue?" 

"I'm  w^an  ov  thim  !" 

Just  then  it  dawned  upon  him  who  I  was.  "Oh,  is  this 
the  buy  with  the  bag  ov  ginger  bread  and  the  quare  shuit 
ov  close,  an'  the  big  hat,  an'  the  long  hair?  Is  it  you  I 
Wull,  \wu\\,  wull!  It  is  frum  huvel  to  pallis  dhis  toime! 
iMe  conshunse  has  often  choided  me  fur  dhat  thrick " 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


313 


"Well,"  said  I,  reassuringly,  "I  am  sorry  your  con- 
science has  served  you  so  badly ;  but  the  memory  of  that 
drive  well  repavs  the  cost,  and  I  forgive  you." 

I  found  that' Tom  had  already  carried  out  my  instruc- 
tions. I  saw  the  mother  and  her  little  Maggie.  There 
was  scarce  a  feature  in  that  poor,  dead  face  that  called  to 
my  mind  the  beautiful  girl  I  had  known  in  the  little  vd- 
lage;  but  in  the  child  I  could  see  the  promise  of  even 

greater  beauty. 

I    remained    until    everything    was    arranged    for    the 

morrow.  ,  ,, 

Promptlv  at  10  o'clock  T  was  in  Mr.  "Coulder  s  office. 
He  was  waiting  for  lue,  and  would  have  greeted  me  even 
cordially  had  I  shown  any  response. 

"I  have,"  he  began,  "thought  the  matter  over,  and  have 
made  out  this  check  for  you,  which  I  will  give  only  on 
condition  that  mv  name  shall  never  appear  in  this  un- 
pleasant affair."  I  took  it,  and,  though  I  knew  him  to  be 
well  to  do.  1  was  greatly  surprised  to  see  the  large  amount 
for  which  it  was  made  out. 

*T  grant  the  condition,"  said  I,  "not  for  the  money,  but 
because  I  have  not  the  proof  of  your  villainy."  He 
winced  as  I  continued :  "Could  I  prove  that.  T  should 
gladlv  pav  this  amount  myself  for  your  child.  This  money 
shallbe  placed  at  interest  and  used  most  conscientiously 
for  her.     You  will  one  day  be  proud  to  own  her  as  a 

daughter." 

I  have  seen  my  prophesy  verified  after  many  years. 

That  afternoon  I  went  back  to  Highmont  with  the  dead 
and  the  living,  having  sent  a  message  to  Sister  Anna  to 
prepare  the  poor  widow  for  my  coming. 

The  people  of  a  small  village  are  quick  to  blame  and 
quite  as  readv  to  condone  a  w^rong  step.  The  widow  had 
the  deep  sympathy  of  all  when  they  had  heard  the  story, 


ti 


314 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


and  little  Ma.e^ji^ie  was  soon  the  pet  of  Highmont. 

The  day  I  left,  the  child,  too  young  to  feel  her  loss,  said 
to  me:  "I  is  so  happy;  my  dood  dramma  says  I  won't 
never,  never  have  to  eat  tiists  no  more." 


I 
f 


>,  said 
won't 


CHAPTER  LV. 


THE  CELEBRATION  MAN. 

"That  man  zvoitld  defraud  an  employee  on  a  technicality." 

He  dressed  well  and  lived  well ;  yet  no  one  at  the  board- 
ing-house knew  his  occupation.  In  fact,  he  seemed  to 
have  no  occupation. 

A  man  in  New  York  with  nothing-  to  do  is  always  a 
mystery  to  those  around  him.  This  man  to  us  was  a 
myster'v.  He  came  and  went  as  regular  as  a  clock.  He 
was  genial,  and  appeared  well  informed  on  all  the  topics 

of  the  day. 

The  city  was  about  to  celebrate  a  great  event  in  its  his- 
toiy.  He  was  particularly  well  informed  on  the  subject 
and  manifested  great  interest  in  it. 

When  we  saw  one  morning  in  the  newspapers  that  he 
had  been  '•entrusted  with  the  full  management  of  the  cele- 
b:;.tion"  we  were  surprised.  We  felt  honored,  in  that  one 
of   our   people   had   been   chosen    to   fill    a   position    so 

prominent. 

*'Why  should  he  have  been  the  choice  of  the  city,  when 
tl:ere  were  so  many  who  were  better  known  to  select 
from?"  we  asked. 

Was  he  the  choice?  Events  proved  that  he,  and  he 
alone,  had  guided  the  choosing.  He  was  a  professional 
'\-elebrator,''  a  calling  so  entirely  new  to  me  that  I  fol- 
lowed with  such  interest  its  inside  workings  that  T  feel 

315 


3i6 


MY   FRIExXD    BILL. 


quite  competent  to  devote  this  chapter  on  "II(j\v  to  ^L\KE 

CliLEliRATlNG   I'AY." 

As  a  prerequisite  you  must  have  a  miHtary  title,  even 
though  you  may  have  to  sojourn  a  month  in  tluit  State  re- 
nowned for  its  colonels  and  "Majahs."  Having  acquired 
this  title,  see  that  you  are  never  addressed  without  it.  If 
a  man  addresses  you  as  "mister,"  tell  him  plainly  to 
"never  let  it  occur  again." 

To  the  watchful  professional,  something  to  celebrate 
will  soon  present  itself.  If  not,  make  something.  This 
is  your  opportunity.  Embrace  it.  You  may  wish  to  take 
the  credit  of  first  thinking  of  it,  but  don't  do  it.  You'll 
have  time  enough  to  boast  of  that  when  you  should  be 
doing  something  else.  Given  the  opportunity,  bestir  your- 
self to  find  the  most  prominent  man  in  the  city  to  act  as 
chairman.  This  will  give  it  respectability.  Whatever 
you  do,  however,  avoid  the  selection  of  a  man  who  shows 
any  inclination  to  "run  things."  Get  yourself  appointed 
as  manager  at  an  exorbitant  salary,  and  your  success  is 
assured.  Waste  no  time  in  putting  upon  the  general  com- 
mittee every  rich  or  prominent  man  in  the  city,  but  choose 
no  one  for  your  sub-committees  whom  you  cannot  fully 
control,  for  there  will  be  contracts  to  be  given  out,  and 
therein  lies  your  real  opportunity.  Bids  will  come  in  for 
all  sorts  of  things — from  barrels  of  "buttons"  to  the 
stands  upon  which  the  public  will  see  the  parades.  Pro- 
grammes and  tons  of  other  printing  will  be  required,  and 
more  tons  of  fireworks  to  illuminate  the  city  and  harbor 
must  be  purchased.  Never  take  the  lowest  bid.  Choose, 
rather,  the  highest,  as  this  tends  to  put  the  bidder  making 
it  into  a  very  generous  state  of  mind.  But  do  not  trust 
this  state  of  mind ;  it  may  change  when  once  the  contract 
is  signed.  Trust  to  nothing  but  a  definite  agreement  as 
to  your  part  of  the  profit  for  the  guidance  of  the  contract. 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


317 


' 


\ 


You  will  soon  find  vourself  so  occupied  in  lookni.cj  attcr 
these  contracts  that  assistants  nnist  be  apponUed  to  run 
the  real  business  of  the  celebration.  Never  choose  these 
assistant,  frora  any  of  tlie  conunittees.  Choose  them 
from  amom?  vour  own  men  (a  professional  celebrator 
ahvavs  has  a  s'oodlv  followin.i?).  and  see  that  they  are  paul 
far  bevond  their  value.  They  will  appreciate  this  and 
use  their  best  efforts  to  make  the  innocent  public  believe 

vou  are  It.  m         r      r 

■  You  must,  to  be  sure,  have  headquarters.  Men  of  pub- 
He  spirit  will  come  forward  with  offers  of  their  hotels; 
exchanges  mav  throw  oi)en  their  committee-n.oms  to  you 
with  freedom  and  a  welcome,  but  be  firm  and  say  '  no 
to  all  such  oft'ers.  Select  rather  some  expensive  hotel 
whose  manauement  will  pay  you  well  for  such  selection. 
Use  as  manv  rooms  as  possible,  especially  if  the  rental  be 
extravatrant.  This  is  conducive  to  liberality  on  the  part 
of  the  aforesaid  management.  _ 

A  most  indispensable  adjunct  to  a  Celebration  is  the 
press  department,  and  one  of  the  first  men  to  appoint  is 
a  live  press  agent,  who  will  work  up  public  interest  to 
the  subscribing  point  against  the  day  for  paying  the  bills. 
The  success  or  failure  of  the  Celebration,  from  a  public 
standpoint,  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  case.     Your  sole 
object  will  have  been  accomplished  when  the  contract  ])ills 
have  been  paid,  and  you  will  never  after  be  looked  upon 
by  vour  fellow  boarders  as  a  mystery. 
'  There  will  be  no  dearth  of  amusing  incidents  in  the 
organizing  of  a  Celebration,  especially  in  the  selecting  of 
the  committees,  in  watching  the  various  means  men  of 
small  calibre  will  use  to  get  this  cheap  honor.     T  have  in 
mind  a  rich  man  from  some  small  town  up  in  the  State 
whose  parents,  to  make  sure  to  him  a  title,  had  given  h.m 
at  birth  a  high-sounding  naval  one.     He  spent  his  win- 


I  n 


"1 


il 


I 


I 


3iS 


MV    FRIEXU    BILL. 


tcrs  in  tlie  city,  and  wlicn  the  committees  were  being- 
chosen  he  claimed  New  York  as  his  residence,  and  was 
most  anxious  for  the  lionor  of  being  a  committeeman, 
but  later  on  when  asked  to  help  defray  the  expenses  of 
the  Celebration  he  would  not  give  a  dollar  toward  it.  and 
thought  it  "very  strange  that  the  city  could  not  run  its 
own  affairs  without  begging  help  frciU  up-State  citizens." 

When  Tom  heard  of  this  up-Suate  committeeman  he 
said:  "That  man  would  defraud  an  employee  on  a  tech- 
nicality." 

The  Celebration  man  is  but  one  of  the  many  in  a  great 
city  who  play  upon  the  enthusiasm  of  the  public  for  their 
livelihood. 

The  public  is  very  old,  and  yet  in  many  ways  it  is 
quite  new.  Like  the  individual,  it  must  first  lose  that  it 
may  learn  that  it  is  being  played  upon. 


CHAPTER  LVI. 

Did  the  public  kuozv  the  vast  amounts  of  money  paid  to 
their  servants  (?)  to  influence  legislation,  they  n'ould 
not  have  so  great  a  feeling  of  patriotism  on  election 
day. 

So  much  of  self  has  been  interwoven  into  my  story,  or 
series  of  stories,  that  I  will  not  ask  of  you  to  follow  me 
through  my  years  of  school  life,  and  into  my  well- 
appointed  offices.  Thanks  to  Aunt  Racheal,  1  did  not 
have  to  begin  "practice"  with  a  small  office,  a  scanty  purse 
and  a  large  appetite,  as  do  most  of  the  young  professional 
men  we  read  about.  Neither  did  I  have  to  wait  the  regu- 
lation months  for  my  "first  client."  This  client  was 
kindly  waiting  for  me,  in  the  person  of  ^Ir.  DeMcrtbern, 
much' of  whose  legal  business,  not  requiring  years  of  wis- 
dom, I  could  do  for  him. 

It  is  said  that  all  young  men  have  a  longing  desire  for 
public  office,  and  given  the  opportunity,  they  will  not 
refuse  the  honor.  Be  that  as  it  may,  when  Tom  came 
to  me  one  day  and  told  me  that  there  was  a  determined 
movement  started  to  send  me  to  the  Assembly,  and  that 
my  many  friends  on  the  East  Side  were  most  anxious  to 
give  me  their  votes,  I  did  not  hesitate  long  in  telling  him 
that  I  was  ''in  the  hands  of  my  friends."  Election  day 
proved  that  these  friends  were  many,  as  my  majority  was 

most  gratifying. 

One  term  was  quite  enough  to  cure  me  of  the  afore- 

319 


i  f«i 


320 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


said  'Mon^Hiig  desire."     it  will  ever  be  a  pleasure  to  say 
no  to  all  future  honors  of  like  character. 

That  one  term  was  an  experience  I  shall  never  forget. 
The  inlluences  and  temptations  thrown  about  a  young 
Asseniblymati  no  ono  knows.  The  staid  Deacon  who 
"passes  the  plate"  in  his  village  church  at  home  may  be 
found  at  midnight  in  the  saloon,  or  places  even  lower. 
"One  of  the  boys"  fits  him  well. 

I  used  often  to  wonder  why  bribery  could  not  be 
proven.  1  do  not  wonder  any  more.  I  have  known  men 
who,  when  ihey  entered  public  office,  were  almost  miser- 
ably poor,  1)Ut  in  a  few  years  were  not  only  well  to  tlo, 
but  rich.  The  innocent  public  wonder  at  the  change,  but 
continue  to  send  back  year  after  year  these  men  whose 
wealth  is  a  mystery  to  them. 

I  spoke  of  bribery  being  almost  impossible  to  prove. 
There  is  no  bribery,  or  at  least  there  need  be  none. 
Why?  The  reason  is  i)lain.  A  vote  is  needed  on  a  bill ; 
the  lobbyist  (Tom  was  wrong— tlie  lobbyist  is  still  an 
"institution"  much  in  evidence)  gets  up  "a  quiet  little 
game"  and  kindly  loses  enough  money  to  pay  for  the 
vote.  No,  there  is  no  bribery !  The  lobbyist  paid  out  no 
money  for  a  single  vote.  He  was  simply  a  poor  card- 
player,  that  w^as  all — but  his  bill  went  through  and  the 
voter  went  home  at  the  end  of  the  term  and  "fixed  up 
the  old  house,"  or,  if  he  had  played  enough  games,  built 
a  new  one  and  bought  a  team. 

Did  the  public  know  the  vast  amounts  of  money  paid 
to  their  servants  (?)  to  influence  legislation,  they  would 
not  have  so  great  a  feeling  of  patriotism  on  election  day. 
The  year  T  served  there  were  many  important  questions 
brought  forward.  I  shall  never  forget  the  interest  a  cer- 
tain "servant"  had  in  the  passage  of  a  bill  that  would 
affect   the   men   who   live  by   "chance."     By   chance   I 


MV    FRIEND    MILL. 


3^1 


learned  lluit  I'nr  his  "interest"  he  was  well  remunerated. 
He  was  paid  one  hundred  and  sixty-tiir  tlionsand  dollars 
for  his  intluencc.  After  the  money  had  passed  into  his 
hands  he  lost  all  interest  in  the  hill,  which,  like  his  in- 
terest, was  also  lost.  "His  name?"  (Jh,  no  :  I  will  reserve 
that  for  a  later  edition.      1  his  heinjj:  no  fiction,  he  has  u 

name. 

Mverv  session  has  its  "strikers.'"  The  "striker  i-^  a 
imi(iue  character.  A  man  with  no  moral  sense  of  ri^ht 
or  wronj.?.  whose  thought  bejj^ins  and  ends  witii  self.  He 
seeks  the  office  for  a  purpose;  that  purpose  has  nothi  ig 
to  do  with  the  public  good.  He  is  a  man  of  no  ability, 
save  that  for  advancing  himself.  Ilefore  election  he  talks 
loudly  of  the  wrongs  d(jne  to  the  peopk-  by  the  "giant 
corporations,"  and  when  elected,  having  little  or  no  abil- 
ity, he  gets  some  one  to  draft  him  a  bill  antagonistic  to 
one  of  the  aforesaid  "giants."  and  makes  great  pretence 
of  having  his  bill  passed,  knowing  full  well  that  he  will 
soon  have  an  invitat">n  to  one  of  thos*  "(juiet  little 
games."  when  he  sub  es  and  drops  back  into  his  natural 
mediocrity  and  is  heard  of  no  more  that  term.  The 
"strike .  is  uni(iue.  Xor  is  he  the  only  character  found 
among  our  law-makers  who  looks  alone  at  self  gain.  The 
statesman  is  becoming  alarmingly  rare  who  seeks  alone 
the  public  good. 

I  am  now  quite  convinced,  with  Tom,  that  we  have 
too  much  making  of  laws  and  too  little  enforcement  of 
those  we  already  have.  As  Tom  says,  the  man  with 
nionev  or  influence  nee'  tear  no  law,  and  since  most  of 
them  are  made  for  his  benefit,  the  poor  alone  are  made 
to  feel  their  oppression. 

While  in  the  Assembly  I  could  note,  as  never  before, 
'the  power  of  the  press."  Tlie  "lionie  pa{)cr''  is  feare^l 
far  more  than  are  the  home  people.     "What  the  paper 


322 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


says."  or  -what  the  editor  tliinks"  in  his  private  letters 
to'his  "member,"  carries  far  more  intluence  than  if  each 
one  of  his  constituents  should  write  that  member  a  per- 
sonal letter. 

These  "papers"'  are  seldom  entirely  honest  in  their  en- 
deavor. During  my  one  term,  there  was  a  universal  de- 
mand from  all  parts  of  the  State  for  economy.  "The 
people  are  being  taxed  beyond  reason,"  was  the  cry. 
llald-headed  Broker,  my  real-estate  friend,  had  called  my 
attention  t..  the  burdensome  charges  for  legal  printing 
of  delincjuent  taxes.  Looking  into  the  matter  carefully, 
and  taking  up  the  general  subject  of  legal  printing,  I 
drew  up  a  bill  cutting  these  charges  down  to  reasonable 
advertising  rates,  and  submitted  it.  Had  I  deliberately 
set  fire  to  the  State  House  I  could  not  have  been  half  so 
roundlv  abused  as  1  was  by  these  same  criers  for  econ- 
om\.  I  never  would  have  believed  a  man  could  be  so 
maiiv  different  things  all  at  the  same  time  as  they  called 
me.  The  worst  "cuts"  of  all,  however,  were  those  of 
wood,  which  they  used  in  their  cartoons  of  my  innocent 

face. 

Extra  carriers  had  to  be  put  on  to  bring  the  mad  for 
the  members  from  the  editors  of  every  country  "cross- 
road sheet."  Tt  reminded  me  of  the  time  I  had  adver- 
tised for  "a  quiet  boarding-place."  Members  flocked 
around  me  in  the  corridors,  followed  me  into  the  street, 
called  at  my  hotel  at  all  hours  of  the  night  and  day,  and 
begged  me  not  to  press  my  bill.  "Let  it  die  in  the 
conmiittce-room ;  we'll  pay  all  funeral  expenses,  and  tip 
the  undertaker!"  Men  who  had  entirely  ignored  me 
were  now  most  fawning  in  their  attentions.  When  flat- 
tery, cajolery  and  such  like  means  failed,  threats  were 

used. 

"Why,"  said  I,  "these  papers  have  been  begging  us 


"  i 


, 

tters 

■ 

each 

per- 

- 

,1 1 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


323 


for  economy — to  lighten  the  burdens  of  the  people,  and 
all  that!     My  bill  will  certainly  lighten  it  for  some  of 
them.     Do  you  know   that   should  a  man  owning  Fifty 
town  lots  in  one  bod>    fail  to  i)ay  his  taxes  at  the  right 
time,  and  they  are  advertised  for  sale,  that,  by  law,  some 
insignificant  country  paper  may  charge  for  each  se])arate 
lot  instead  of  as  a  w^hole,  and  that  while  the  la.\  may  be 
only  a  few  cents  each,  that  the  advertising  as  now  allowed 
will  amount  to  nearly  two  ilollars  each?     Do  you  know 
that  the  rate  for  legal  advertising  is  sometimes  seven-fold 
what  these  same  papers  woukl  gladly  accept  for  ordinary 
advertising?     Do  you  know^  these  things,  and  yet  ask  me 
not  to  press  my  bill?     What  have  you  come  here  to  do, 
as  re])resentatives  of  the  ])eople  whose  votes  sent  you,  as 
honest  men.  to  work  in  tlu-ir  interest?     Is  this  working 
in  their  interest  to  beg  of  me  to  withdraw  my  bill  that 
would  save  them  hard-earned  money?     Is  it  working  in 
their  interest  that  when  they  are  forced  by  law  into  the 
legal  column  of  a  newspaper  that  they  must  needs  pay 
seven  times  as  much  as  they  would  have  to  pay  were  they 
advertising  their  goods  or  ])roduce  for  sale?"     And  many 
more  things  did  T  ask  the  members  who  had  gathered 
round  in  my  hotel  to  beg  of  me  to  allow  my  bill  to  die 
a  natural  death. 

Many  of  them  shamedly  crept  away  until  but  few  of 
them  remained,  and  these  the  more  persistent. 

"Do  you  know\''  asked  one,  who  voiced  the  sentiments 
of  his  fellows — "do  you  know,"  he  repeated,  with  great 
earnestness,  "that  if  it  were  not  for  the  legal  printing 
that  many  of  the  newspaj)ers  could  not  exist?" 

"No,"  said  T  quietly,  "and  T  thank  you  for  the  informa- 
tion, for  now  T  shall  surely  press  the  bill  with  greater 
energv  in   the  <loub]c  interest  of  tlic  people." 

"We    know    what    you    say    is    true,"    continued    the 


324 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


spokesman ;  "but  if  yon  press  your  measure  it  will  accom- 
plish no  good  and  do  us  great  harm  in  any  event.  We 
dare  not  vote  for  it,  as  thus  we  antagonize  the  'papers,' 
and  if  we  do  not  vote  for  it  we  antagonize  our  constit- 
uents.    You  are  a  lawyer,  are  you  not?" 

"T  am  so  called,"  said  L 

"Then  what  need  you  care  what  legal  printing  costs? 
You  don't  have  to  pay  the  hill." 

"I  am  a  lawyer,  'tis  true,  hut  I  would  be  a  patriot  first." 

"Indeed!"  with  a  sneer.  "Well,  young  man,  you  are 
greatly  out  of  place  up  here,  then,  and  we  don't  think 
you  will  return.     Eh,  boys?" 

"I  sincerely  trust  I  shall  not;  but  while  I  am  here  I 
shall  do  my  duty  as  T  see  it.  and  my  bill  will  be  pressed 
if  it  get  but  my  own  vote ;"  and  when  I  did  press  it  to  a 
vote,  mine  was  the  only  one  it  received. 

No  pariah  was  ever  more  alone  than  I  during  the  re- 
maining weeks  of  the  session.  Even  the  pages  would 
have  turned  me  down. 

I  am  fortunately  devoid  of  all  sensitiveness  when  in 
the  line  of  duty,  and  this  ostracism  by  my  fellow-members 
was  rather  a  pleasant  sensation  to  me. 

Doubtless  the  people  for  whom  I  had  aimed  to  do  a 
service  think  of  me,  if  at  all,  as  anything  but  an  honest 
man— their  opinion  having  been  formed  for  them  by  the 
"papers,"  which  go  right  on  charging  them  "legal  rates." 

T  would  not  refuse  to  accord  justice,  however,  where 
it  is  merited,  and  will  say  that  on  most  public  matters 
these  same  papers  work  valiantly  for  the  general  good. 


1 


I; 


V 

\ 

i 

com- 
We 

; 

rvofc 

.. 

iCTb, 

nstit- 

■ 

. 

; 

>» 


CHAPTER  L\'1I. 

They  may  be  accounted  as  great,  but  greatness  alone  has 
never  yet  taken  the  place  of  contentment. 

Bill  and  Beatrice  have  long  since  been  married,  and, 
like  Edward  and  Anita,  are  living  in  their  own  mansion. 

Helen  is  no  longer  the  prattling  child,  but  the  young 
woman  just  entering  society.  She  is  even  more  beauti- 
ful than  was  her  promise  to  be. 

Her  childhood  wish  to  see  Highmont  has  often  been 
gratified,  for  with  Anita  and  Beatrice  she  has  spent 
many  a  summer  among  the  scenes  I  once  loved  so  dearly, 
and  revisit  with  such  delight. 

She  is  not  only  beautiful  in  face  and  form,  but  her  char- 
acter is  one  of  those  that  brighten  the  world  about  her. 
While  she  has  society  as  a  worshii)er,  she  never  forgets 
those  who  know  little  of  joy.  Her  father  calls  her  the 
familv  philanthropist,  and  allows  her  unlimited  means  to 
gratify  her  desire  for  doing  good,  yet  so  quietly  are  her 
deeds  done  that  few  aside  from  the  recipients  know  of 
them.  Those  few,  however,  are  never  idle.  They  ply 
her  with  begging  letters  for  all  possible  and  impossible 
purposes.  They  are  most  persistent  in  their  requests, 
which  many  times  amount  to  demands.  Investigation,  in 
some  instances,  proved  that  the  writers  really  live  off  the 
charitable,  who  are  touched  by  the  seeming  merit  of  the 
cases.  These  letter  beggars,  by  long  ex])crience,  are  such 
adepts  thv^y  cyuld  almost  extract  gold  from  the  rocks, 

395 


:■  \ 


326 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


With  lier  multiplicity  of  social  duties  and  her  charitable 
work,  her  time  was  so  taken  up  that  I  seldom  saw  her. 

1  don't  know  why,  but  1  soon  found  myself  wishing 
that  she  was  a  child  again,  that  I  might  be  "Mister 
Ruben"  as  of  old.  She  never  called  me  "Mister  Ruben" 
any  more.  I  felt  myself  drifting  away  from  her,  and 
wlien  I  occasionally  saw  her  in  society  she  was  so  sur- 
rounded by  the  younger  men  that  I  felt  a  return  of  that 
old  feeling  of  being  forgotten  by  the  children  who  had 
once  loved  me.  1  fain  would  withdraw  from  society,  but 
before  the  evening  was  over  she  would  always  come  to 
me  for  a  little  while  to  say  some  pleasantries. 

"Ruben,"  she  would  say,  "it  is  so  restful  to  talk  with 
you.  One  does  not  have  to  be  so  precise."  No,  nor 
would  one  have  to  be  to  an  inferior. 

Was  it  a  compliment  she  was  paying  me,  or  did  she 
think  of  me  as  a  person  for  whom  she  had  no  desire  or 
care  to  jilease  ?  I  would  leave  the  house  long  before  the 
end  of  the  reception,  and  quite  resolve  that  I  would  ac- 
cept no  more  invitations,  but  a  something — I  know  not 
what— would  ever  cause  me  to  break  that  resolution. 

If  T  were  conversing  with  a  lady  with  any  degree  of 
interest,  Helen  would  thereafter  show  in  her  manner  more 
than  in  what  she  would  say  that  she  was  not  pleased 
with  that  particular  lady.  T  could  but  silently  note  this 
in  her,  and  wonder  at  it,  for  she  seemed  so  free  from 
dislike  for  any  one. 

Why  should  she  care  to  whom  I  was  agreeable  ?  I  was 
now  but  little  to  her,  and  with  her  widening  circle  of 
friends,  was  fast  growing  less. 

She  had  been  in  society  a  year  when  a  cousin  of  Anita 
came  to  visit  America.  He  was  very  callow,  this  cousin, 
but,  to  compensate  for  iuanly  bearing,  he  was  an  carl, 
which  in  the  minds  of  too  many  condoned  all  else.     The 


I  f 
j 


\ 


MY  FRIEND  BILL. 


327 


u. 


pigmy  with  a  title  too  often  outweighs  every  manly  qual- 
ity in  the  native  American.  He  may  lack  every  gift  that 
marks  the  true  man,  and  yet  be  held  in  greater  esteem 
than  the  American  with  them  all.  This  title  worship  has 
been  the  cause  of  many  a  wasted  life,  and  yet  new 
"moths"  are  ever  being  dazzled  by  the  light  and  led  away, 
wearing  a  coronet  on  the  head  while  the  joy  they  had 
hoped  for  never  reaches  the  heart.  They  may  be  ac- 
counted as  great,  but  greatness  alone  has  never  yet  taken 
the  place  of  contentment. 

ft  v/as  not  long  until  it  could  be  seen  that  the  earl  had 
made  his  choice,  and  that  choice  was  Helen.  Why  should 
this  have  been  aught  to  me?  I  nuist  have  known  that 
she  would  some  time  marry  and  drop  out  of  my  life,  and 
forget  her  "Mister  Ruben"  of  childhood;  but  yet  1  felt 
it  (feeply  when  this  time  seemed  to  have  come.  I  with- 
drew entirely  from  everything  social. 

I  had  been  successful  even  beyond  my  hopes.  The 
world  had  called  me  a  great  lawyer,  a  great  financier ;  but 
this  did  not  bring  me  any  happiness.  1  found  no  joy 
in  a  single  personal  success,  save  when  some  other  had 
been  benefited.  1  had  wealth,  but  I  saw  many  a  i)Oor 
man  who  seemed  so  nmch  more  content  that   I   envied 

him. 

I  sought  to  break  this  feeling  in  travel,  and  spent  a 
year  abroad,  seeing  all  the  places  of  interest  iti  the  old 
world;  but  returned  with  a  heavier  heart  than  when  I 
started.  I  visitc;^l  my  old  home,  but  the  places  T  had 
once  loved  seemed  to  have  lost  all  charm  for  me.  I 
came  back  to  the  city  and  sought  in  my  work  the  relief 
I  had  failed  to  find  in  recreation,  but  in  vain. 

Was  this  the  reward  of  success?  Was  this  my  com- 
pensation for  years  of  struggle  to  reach  that  pinnacle 
on  which  I  had  hoped  to  find  true  happiness?     I  would 


328 


MV  FRIEND  BILL. 


seek  out  the  friends  of  long  ago  and  live  over  with  them 
the  days  when  life  was  so  free  from  care.  But  where 
were  these  friends?  1  sought  for  them,  but  found  no 
friends.  I  saw  many  of  those  I  had  known  when  I  first 
came  to  the  city,  and  more  whom  I  had  met  during  my 
years  at  law  school,  but  none  of  them  seemed  to  me  as 
i  had  known  them.  They  were  all  changed.  When  we 
had  exhausted  the  merest  commonplaces  our  conversa- 
tion was  at  an  end.  There  was  a  barrier  through  which 
we  could  not  penetrate.  I  asked  one  of  them  who  had, 
in  the  old  days,  been  a  very  dear  fricud,  *'\\'hy  are  you  so 
changed  from  the  merry-hearted  Jack  1  knew  long  ago  ?" 

"It  is  you  who  are  changed."  said  Jack,  "not  I.  Good 
fortune  has  led  you  away  into  smooth  paths.  The  world 
has  accorded  you  a  place  in  the  first  ranks;  it  does  you 
homage  for  great  success!  You  forget  the  early  strug- 
gles in  vour  years  of  continued  prosperity,  and  now  when 
you  see  the  old  friends  who  have  been  living  on  in  the 
same  dull  routine,  you  ask,  'Why  have  you  changed?'  " 

"And  vet.''  I  asked,  "why  should  those  whom  once  I 
loved  drift  away  from  me,  and  never  seek  me  out?  Do 
thev  no  longer  regard  me?  Have  I  done  aught  that 
would  estrange  from  them?     Can  they   forget  the 

ties  that  once  bound  us  in  friendship?" 

"Ruben,  this  is  a  strange  world.  The  higher  one  goes 
up,  in  the  temple  of  fame,  the  further  one  gets  away 
from  his  less  successful  friend.  The  friend  may  regard 
hitn,  and  watch  his  ascent  with  no  envy,  but  with  pride ; 
vet  he  feels  that  to  presume  on  the  old  friendship  is  to 
intrude,  and  he  quietly  drifts  away,  and  when  in  after 
years  thev  by  some  chance  meet,  each  thinks  the  other 
has  changed.  They  part,  and  possibly  .see  each  other  no 
more." 

W^as  this  true?     IVIust  I  feel  that  those  whom  mv  heart 


MY  FRIEND  BILL. 


329 


had  called  friends  had  dropped  out  of  my  life,  and  tliat 
I  must  hereafter  wander  on  alone,  with  none  save  those 
who  are  bound  to  me  in  a  business  or  professional  way? 
I  cried  out  at  the  curse  of  success !  Would  that  I  might 
go  back  to  the  old  days— to  the  old  joys!  The  people 
we  meet  beyond  the  bounds  of  youth  are  seldom  friends 
of  the  heart.  They  may  admire  our  ability,  some  (luality 
of  manner  or  intellect,  but  there  is  little  of  affection.  We 
meet,  admire,  but  seldom  love  these  friends  of  later  life. 
They  may  excel  the  old  friends  in  all  things  good  or 
great,  but  they  can  never  be  bound  to  us  by  those  sweet, 
heart  tendrils  which  twined  us  to  the  friends  of  long  ago. 

Here  was  I,  scarce  thirty  years  old,  and  yet  I  seemed 
standing  alone.  I  had  outrun  in  life's  race  my  boyhood 
mates  whom  I  would  yet  love,  but  my  success  had  taken 
me  out  of  their  world.  On  the  other  hand,  this  success 
had  surrounded  me  with  people  who  paid  homage  to  the 
position  I  held,  and  who  would  have  done  the  same 
homage  to  that  position  held  by  another  and  forgotten 
me  had  reverses  lost  it  to  me. 

I  had  not  even  the  pleasure  of  a  material  want.  My 
means  were  so  great  that  all  needs  were  supplied  ere  it 
had  become  a  pleasure  to  want  for  them.  Oh,  the  void 
in  my  heart,  which  the  mines  of  earth  could  not  fill ! 

I  analyzed  my  life,  but  all  to  no  purpose.  I  knew  my 
condition,  but  this  did  not  lighten  the  load. 

It  was  long  before  I  would  admit  to  myself  the  real 
cause.  I  could  not  believe  my  heart  would  serve  me  so 
ill — to  love  that  which  could  never  be  mine.  "Never  be 
mine!"  rang  back  the  mental  echo.  "Be  mine!"  it  re- 
verberated. "Mine!"  it  ended.  Oh,  that  this  end  might 
be  true!  And  yet  I  dared  not  allow  myself  to  hope  it, 
even  had  T  dared  to  hone  so  rich  a  consummation. 

I  lived  in  the  past.     Often  I  found  myself  repeating 


W^mi 

Hp'i 

^HL-^ 

^^^Hl^^  w 

HPf 

^^^^^  ^ 

^^^R-'  5 

1 

1 

330 


MY  FRIEND  BILL. 


the  words  of  little  Helen ;  but  never  could  I  make  them 
seem  the  words  of  Helen  the  grown  lady.  "I  will  be 
vour  Helen  forever  and  ever,  and  never  forget  you.  I 
will  love  you  always."  How  sweet  these  sentences, 
though  spoken  years  ago  by  a  child ! 

The  earl  was  now  a  constant  visitor  at  the  home  of 
Mr.  DeHertbern.  Society  connected  his  name  with 
Helen  seemingly  as  a  matter  of  course.  In  the  early 
summer  he  returned  to  England,  as  all  said,  to  arrange 
for  the  coming  event,  which  "event"  was  to  take  from 
out  mv  world  the  onlv  one  I  had  ever  truly  loved ! 


lem 

be 

I 

ces, 

;  of 
vith 
arly 
nge 
rom 


CHAPTER  LVTII. 

Is  the  stream  less  strong  or  its  zvaters  less  pure  for  the 
rocks  over  zvhich  it  has  been  dashed  in  its  course/ 
Some  of  its  life  may  have  been  beaten  into  mist,  but 
see  all  along  the  zvay  the  fer}is  and  Hoivers  zvhich 
have  been  given  life  by  that  mist. 

Shortly  after  the  earl's  departure  Beatrice.  Anita  and 
Helen,  with  the  children,  went  on  their  yearly  visit  to 
Highniont,  which  had  been  brought  much  nearer  to  the 
outside  world  by  a  railroad  whicii  1  had  built— more  in 
sentiment  for  the  old  home  than  for  an  investment. 

The  week  following.  Bill  came  into  my  office  one  day 
holding  a  letter  he  had  just  received  from  Beatrice. 

"Listen  to  this,"  he  began:  "  'We  will  be  looking  for 
you  out  two  days  after  the  receipt  of  this  letter.*  " 

"Well."    said   1,   "of  course   you   will   not   disappoint 

them." 

"You  mean  zee  will  not  disappoint  them."  quietly  re- 
plied Bill. 

"Why,"  I  asked,  "is  Edward  going  with  you?" 

"No,  you  dull  bo\ .  I  mean  that  you  and  I  are  going. 
We  are  both  'looked  for.'  " 

"Bill,"  1  protested.  "I  am  sorry  to  disappoint  you,  but 
it  will  be  impossible  for  me  to  go  at  this  time." 

"Oh.  it  is  not  me  you  will  disappoint,  you  stupid  fellow. 
Look  at  tills  postscript.     Do  you  recognize  the  writer?'' 

In   a  dainty  hand   were   these   words:     "Oh,   Mister 

331 


332 


MY   FRIEND  BILL. 


■ 

i 

^^^^^^^^  t 

K 

HH 

■ 

|i 

Rnbcn,  be  your  old  self  again,  and  come  home."  There 
was  nu  name — no  name  was  needed.  1  knew  the  hand 
that  had  penned  that  request,  and  quietly  said:  "Bill,  I 
will  go." 

"Be  your  old  self  again!"  Had  she,  too,  noted  the 
change?  How  could  she,  when  she  had  seen  me  so 
seldom  since  her  entrance  into  society?  Before  that 
time  we  were  very  much  together,  always  as  man  and 
child ;  but  since  the  world  of  society  had  claimed  her, 
1  had  quietly  dropped  away  and  remen.hered  her  only 
as  the  child  Helen.  And  for  the  first  time  in  years,  I 
was  again  "Mister  Ruben."  What  a  volume  of  sweet 
memories  those  two  words  brought  back  to  me !  I  looked 
about  and  wondered  why  the  world  seemed  so  much 
brighter.  The  load  on  my  heart  which  had  ever  grown 
heavier  as  the  months  went  by,  seemed  all  at  once  to 
grow  lighter,  and  everything  about  me  changed  as  though 
by  a  touch  of  magic.  This  happy  feeling  was  too  much 
of  joy  to  last.  Doubts  and  questions  began  flooding  my 
mind  until  I  almost  regretted  that  I  had  promised  to 
go  with  him.  "Why  does  she  want  you  to  come  home? 
She  has  been  there  a  week,  and  already  she  is  tired  of  the 
monotony,  and  would  even  have  so  stupid  a  fellow  as 
you  to  amuse  her!  Yes,  Ruben — 'Mister  Ruben' — go 
home  and  while  away  the  time  until  the  earl's  return, 
and  then  you  will  be  of  no  more  interest  to  her.  Go 
home !" 

Soon  I  was  even  more  despondent  than  before.  The 
apples  of  joy  seemed  to  turn  to  bitter  fruit,  as  the  doubts 
and  questions  filled  my  brain.  Would  I  break  my  prom- 
ise to  Bill  and  again  refuse  to  go?  No,  I  will  keep  my 
promise,  though  my  heart  be  broken  by  the  going.  I  will 
know  my  fate,  though  that  fate  be  my  undoing ! 

I  shall  ever  carry  with  me  the  picture  I  saw  at  the 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


3.U 


the 


staticm  at  Higlimont  that  bright  June  morning,  as  Bill 
and  I  looked  from  the  car-door.  The  long,  winding 
street,  set  against  the  mountains  in  the  distance;  this 
street  bordered  by  liouses  that  ever  grew  smaller  on 
each  of  my  returns  from  the  city,  while  in  the  immediate 
foreground  were  my  old  father  and  mother,  with  Pauline 
and  hlvelyn  May,  now  grown  to  womanhood,  surrounded 
by  Anita,  Beatrice  and  Helen,  all  with  bright,  smiling 
faces  turned  toward  us  with  such  a  warm  welcome,  was 
a  picture  that  could  hang  forever  in  the  choicest  nook 
of  the  heart's  gallery. 

I  tried  to  greet  all  alike,  but  somehow  the  greetings 
were  more  or  less  luirrieil  until  I  had  reached  Helen,  who 
had  arranged  to  be  the  last,  when  we  wandered  off  to- 
gether, I  almost  forgetting  that  she  had  not  come  alone, 
while  she  seemed  in  her  happy  spirits  to  forget  for  the 
moment  that  a  certain  earl  has  ever  existed. 

Oh,  the  joys  of  those  days  at  Highmont!  Little  ex- 
cursions were  taken  to  every  point  of  interest  for  miles 
around.  The  evenings  were  filled  in  with  innumerable 
entertainments,  in  which  T  always  aimed  to  have  the 
village  friends  participate.  I  brought  companies  of 
actors  from  the  city  and  gave  these  good  people  what 
they  had  never  before  seen — real  plays.  And  yet  many 
of  them  said  that  "Robbins'  Exhibition"  far  surpassed 
them  all,  showing,  after  all,  that  excellence  is  only  the 
point  of  view  from  which  it  is  taken. 

Neither  Helen  nor  T  had  once  spoken  the  earl's  name, 
or  even  made  mention  of  him — she,  no  doubt,  from  a 
delicacy,  and  I  lest  my  joys  would  come  to  an  end  by 
confession  from  her. 

Two  weeks  had  passed  so  swiftly  along,  freighted  with 

tirir   siWLiiiv    p:eas::iC3,   Iiiat    t    Ua-i    3K.iXi\^C   lio'teu   ine   liiiie, 

when  there  came  a  day  that  stands  out  and  beyond  all  the 


334 


MY   FRIEND  BILL. 


utlicr  clays  of  my  life  till  then. 

The  occasion  was  a  drive  of  some  ten  miles  to  the 
Cascades,  the  one  really  romantic  spot  of  all  our  country- 
side. 

A  little  rivulet  starting  on  the  very  mountain  top  was 
fed  by  innumerable  springs  along  the  course  as  it  turned 
down  a  deep  gorge  in  the  cliffs,  until  it  was  soon  a 
lashing,  furious  torrent  as  it  rushed  on  to  the  quiet  valley 
below.  All  alcng  its  lortucms  course  was  cascade  after 
cascade,  and  no  two  alike.  Some  sheer  k-aps  of  a  hundred 
feet  to  the  rocks  below,  others  of  lesser  tall,  but  all  full  of 
wondrous  beauty.  1  lere  and  there  were  deep  pools  hol- 
lowed out  by  the  endless  ages  through  which  the  stream 
had  flowed,  and  in  these  pools  sported  *!ie  beautiful  moun- 
tain trout. 

Never  before  had  the  Cascades  seemed  so  full  of 
grandeur  as  on  that  day.  The  rhythm  of  the  falling 
water  seemed  to  be  in  perfect  harmony  with  the  music 
in  my  heart.  There  was  nuisic  in  my  heart,  and  yet  I 
dared  not  analyze  it.  1  was  happy  because  Helen  was 
near  me.  She  might  not  be  for  long,  but  her  presence 
numbed  the  futu-e  and  for  the  time  I  was  content. 

After  the  picnic  dinner,  spread  on  a  smooth  plateau 
half-wav  up  the  mountain  side,  we  wandered  off  from 
the  rest  of  the  party,  Helen  and  I,  "to  gather  ferns  and 
wild  flowers."  but  soon  forgot  our  mission  as  we  seated 
ourselves  in  the  shade  of  a  great  overhanging  oak  in 
one  of  the  few  quiet  spots  along  the  water  course. 

"How  like  one's  life,"  said  I,  "is  this  stream !  Tt  begins 
small  and  uneventful,  runs  along  on  a  high  plane,  gathers 
strength  as  it  goes,  but  ere  long  it  begins  to  ruffle  and 
break  into  little  riffles,  swirls  over  obstructions,  falls  away 
and  dashes  itself  on  the  rocks  below,  only  to  gather  itself 
together  for  more  precipitous  plunges  further  on !" 


'I'he  fcctisioii  \vii.?«  ■*  '.Irivi'  ut  '^"nie  ten  miles,  to  ihv  (';>.-<•;'.!!!'».  !!!<■ 
one  roniantic  spot  «)f  sill  (uir  country  aide I'agciS't. 


« 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


335 


1  shall  never  forget  the  sweet,  q"it-'t  reply  Helen  made 
to  ni\-  impassioned  simile.  "Ruben,  look  away  down 
there  below.  See  this  same  stream — here  so  rough  and 
boisterous,  there  so  smooth  and  placid — as  it  flows  away 
toward  the  great  ocean.  Is  the  stream  less  strong  or  the 
waters  less  pure  for  the  rocks  over  which  it  has  been 
dashed  in  its  course?  Some  of  its  life  may  have  been 
beaten  into  mist,  but  see  all  along  the  way  the  ferns  and 
flowers  which  have  been  given  life  by  that  mist.  That 
life  loses  naught  which  contributes  to  other  life." 

"Yes;  but,  Helen,"  I  replied,  "some  streams  and  some 
lines  dash  on  to  the  enU.  There  is  no  rest,  no  quiet 
eddies,  no  smooth  ending." 

"'i1iat  may  be  true,  Ruben:  but  many  a  life  is  wasted 
over  rough  and  tortuous  ways,  where  a  smooth  course 
might  have  been  more  easily  taken  and  all  the  rocks 
avoided,  and  the  end  reached  in  peace." 

Could  she  know  what  she  was  saying?  Would  1  not 
have  gladly  escajied  the  precipitous  rocks  over  which  I 
.had  been  carried  during  the  years  since  she  was  my  own 
little  Helen?  Could  T  choose  my  way  when  another  held 
the  course  I  would  take?  Xo,  mine  was  a  life  not  fitted 
to  the  one  of  peace  of  which  she  so  sweetly  spoke.  Look- 
ing up  at  me.  she  said  almost  abruptly  and  quite  inno- 
cently :  "Ruben,  1  have  watched  your  course  for  a  long 
while,  and  have  felt  that  vour  life  was  saddened,  for  some 
cause,  and  now  in  your  simile  of  the  stream  I  see  it 
clearly ;  but  why  should  your  life  be  sad — you,  who 
have  met  with  success  rarely  attained  by  one  of  your 
years?  You  have  gained  wealth  almost  beyond  desire; 
few  have  ever  reached  your  position  in  the  law  so  early 
in  life,  while  your  friends  are  legion.  You,  above  all 
others,  should  be  the  happiest  of  men  !*' 

Oh,  that  1  dared  tell  her  the  cause  and  know  my  fate! 


336 


MY  FRIEND  BILL. 


thrust  upon  them,  wl>'le  >"  ^.^^,  ^„^  not  for 

honors  and  position,  and,  as  I  bcUe       . 

title*-"  .„       ,    „i,l  .he  <;pcak  so  lightly  of  them, 

••Titles!"     Why  shotdd  she  sp  ^  ^^^,,,  ^^^  ,,,ist 

when  so  soon  she  ^ou  d  bear  o     •  ^^^^^  ^^^^^^^  „{ 

saying:    "Helen,  you  su rp  ^^^^^^,  ^.^^^  „,„, 

titles,  when  the  world  has  air  a  ^., 

,vith  one  which  -t  says  .    soon  to  he  ,  ^^^^^^  ^^.^^,^,, 

■•Oh,  Ruben !  are  you,  too   one  o  ^„ 

T  could  not  have  heheved  Uus  o^  yo  ^^^^^^^.^^  ^^^ 

1  scarce  knew  what  I  was    ay  ^  g  ^^^  ^^.^^^  ,^ 

jov.  when  T  exclaimed:      What.  . 

marry  the  earl?"  ^^,,,     oh,   'Mistef 

"Marry   the   earl!    I   "^"  "^  ,(„„,  aid  vou?"  and  her 

Ruben!'  you  never  »f  "^^^^^ ^^^^^^the  first  time  in  years 
,nerry  laugh  was  so  hearty  that  ^  ^^^^^_j  ^^^^^^^ 

,he  seemed  the  f'^l'^^-^l^^'Z  are  free  to  have  me 

not  help  it-as  I  asked       /^he"  -^  ,,„ 

tell  vou  why  my  he  has  been  s.c  „ 

-Free  as  the  child  whose  life  >oi.  o  ^^^^^  ^^^^ 

..Then.  Helen,  it  was  beca  ^^^^^^^^^  ,„ld 
forever  the  only  on  ^  l^^j;  f  ^^^  ,ot,  t,  as  my  own, 
whose  life  I  saved!    May 

that  life?"  „  ,gn  forever  and  ever,  and 

..1.-  ,ben,  I  will  be  your  Hele  ^  , 

will  never  forget  you.    I  w.U  love  y 


hen 
itles 
has 
both 
:  for 

hem, 
resist 
,g  of 
name 

'orld? 

\e  and 
ing  to 

Mister 
,nd  her 
[1  years 
I  could 
ave  me 


lad  lost 
lat  child 
ny  own, 

ver,  and 

r 


